


Out Of the Night That Covers Me

by mickeym



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Big Bang Challenge, Curtain Fic, Graphic Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-31
Updated: 2010-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-11 00:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickeym/pseuds/mickeym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The apocalypse was stopped at the eleventh hour, and Lucifer was forced back into his cage. Sam and Dean survived, but now they have to learn how to deal with the loss and destruction, and figure out how to move forward. But how do you move forward when you're mired in the past, and caught up in a web of rage and pain?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out Of the Night That Covers Me

There are good days, and there are bad days.

Some days, the rage inside him is overwhelming, white-hot and potent; a rush of energy he thinks could light up a not-so-small town somewhere. It burns in him; it burns _him_, making everything appear distorted, just a little off-kilter. He fights the restraints holding him down, even though he's often the one to ask for them, screaming until his throat is raw, shredded; shouting for someone, anyone, to come.

Those are the good days.

On the bad days, Sam couldn't tell you which end is up. The rage builds to thermonuclear levels until it literally shorts his brain out and shuts him down. If he sees, it's through a haze of red, blended with shadows. More often, he just lays there, silent and still, eyes open but unseeing.

Some days, when he's lucid and (reasonably) calm, Dean will come up to visit. Well, as far as Sam knows, Dean comes by pretty often, but Sam's not lucid and calm at the same time very often, and he refuses to see Dean when the rage has hold of him. They've said and done so many hurtful things to each other in the last couple of years; Sam doesn't want to compound that if he can avoid it.

Dean asks him what he thinks about, when he "checks out", and Sam doesn't know what to tell him. He can't put it into words because it seems so much larger than words can encompass.

He knows Dean would understand some of it – Dean was there, he was part of the whole thing. Michael wore him the same as Lucifer wore Sam. Dean probably had it worse, if Sam's being honest, because technically speaking, Michael!Dean had to kill Sam, in order for Lucifer to die. Sam wonders sometimes if Dean's levels of rage could match his – and he hopes they don't.

"What do you think about, when you're not here asking me?" Sam asks Dean one day. He's mostly calm, but he's been agitated off and on, so the orderlies strapped him down, at his request.

Dean shrugs, but his eyes hold shadows, secrets he won't share. Sam wonders if they'll ever be able to share all their secrets with each other – and then wonders if they even should.

~~~~~

The apocalypse is over, as far as Sam can tell. He hears the rumbles of the earth beneath him; watches the rain streaming against the windows, blasted there by gusts of wind that seem more tornado than not, but things seem to be settling back down, albeit slowly.

There's damage, of course. Cities and towns were blown off the map – literally, in some cases. People are gone; some physically, some mentally. Sam wants to believe Bobby survived, but he doesn't know for sure. He thinks Dean knows, but Dean won't talk about it – one more of those secrets – like he's maybe waiting to tell Sam when he thinks Sam can handle it better.

Castiel is gone. Sam remembers watching him die, the life pulled out of him bit-by-bit, tortured by Lucifer as punishment for standing with the hairless apes. It's one of the things that triggers the rages, remembering himself watching, locked inside his own head, his own body, while Lucifer wore him and rode him and used him to kill, and knowing Lucifer was doing it _because Sam said yes_.

It was part of the plan, his saying yes, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. If anything, it makes it hurt worse.

He welcomes the searing pain that comes then, body jerking in spasms as he pulls and pulls at the thick leather straps. He wears himself out straining, until his mind shuts down and he can rest awhile.

~~~~~

"I wish you'd let 'em unstrap you."

Sam blinks the sleep out of his eyes and looks in the direction of Dean's voice. The one chair in the room is against the wall, underneath a small, high window that blocks more light than it allows in. Dean looks as groggy as Sam feels right now.

"Morning to you, too," he says hoarsely, throat sore and mouth dry.

"It's nearly eleven--at night, Sam." Dean's knees pop when he stands up, and Sam winces at the sound. "They called me because you wouldn't—wouldn't stop. Screaming."

Sam stares blankly at Dean. "When?"

"All day? I don't know. I've been here a couple of hours; you stopped not long after I got here. Just went limp and quiet."

Sam coughs once, and turns his head to stare up at the ceiling before looking back at his brother. "Can I have some water?"

"You want me to untie you?"

"Only if the nurse brings me a sedative first." His arms ache, and his wrists, and his head is throbbing, and deep inside him is the blackest pit of all, waiting to swallow him up. "Water, Dean. Please?"

"Yeah, hang on." Dean fumbles with the pitcher and cup on the nightstand beside Sam's bed, then brings the cup up to his mouth, holding it steady while Sam drinks. The water is lukewarm and tastes stale, like it's been sitting there a while, but it feels so good going down he can't bring himself to care.

He drinks four cups before he feels sated, and Dean's looking at him with something like bemusement and concern. "What?"

Dean sighs and shakes his head. "I thought—the whole point of you coming here was so you could get better. Or whatever. But it seems like it's worse. That you're, that you can't control it anymore."

"I didn't have it controlled before, Dean." Sam breathes deeply through his nose, the sharp tang of chemicals in the air stinging and soothing all at once. "I had it _locked down_. That's not in control, that's in denial."

"So this is better? Screaming until your voice disappears, and pulling on your restraints until you hurt yourself?"

"Better that than hurting someone who has nothing to do with any of this. And it's not like you've never restrained me."

Dean draws in a sharp breath, and there's a part of Sam, however small, that's pleased he scored a hit, while the rest of him cringes back because he doesn't want to do that. Doesn't want to hurt Dean. "Only when you were out of your mind on demon blood," Dean says, voice calm, cool. Like Sam didn't just slide a verbal knife between his ribs.

"And that was to keep me from hurting myself, or others. Right? Well this is the same thing." Sam pulls gently on the leather straps, testing them. "When I think I don't need them anymore, that's when I won't need them anymore."

He wants to tell Dean that sometimes he still feels Lucifer inside him. How he feels the mental caresses, soft and sweet, good like nothing's ever been before. Until the soft and sweet turns to razors and barbs, biting, digging in, pulling that rage up through him until he's covered in it. Drowning in it.

Sam's pretty sure it's not Lucifer, not really. No more than it's Azazel's blood, or any other demon's blood. It's just him, and a lifetime of one thing after another building up, festering inside him.

The blood and his birthright and Lucifer? They were just the icing on the cake.

"I'm gonna head out," Dean says quietly, and Sam looks back at him. Sometimes, when the shadows hit just right, Dean looks like he's aged ten years in the last six months. Maybe he has. Maybe they both have. "I have to be up early, working overtime tomorrow."

Sam nods and wishes he could touch Dean again, even if it was just to touch his hand or pat his back. Words don't work for them anymore, but he can't remember the last time touches did, either. Before Dean went to Hell, probably. That's the last time he can remember touching Dean and having it really mean something.

"Sleep tight." His fingers curl inward a little, reflexive action where they want to reach out. Where he wants to reach out, grab fistfuls of Dean's shirts and just hold his brother close. Just hold him. Anything else would be awesome and wonderful, but just holding on to him would mean the world, too.

"I'll see you later, Sammy."

"Tomorrow?" He doesn't mean to ask that, but the word slips out anyway.

Dean stops in the doorway and glances back at him. "I'll try," he says softly.

It's all Sam can hope for. To hope for anything else is foolish. _His_ damage might be more immediately obvious, but Dean's is just as bad. It's just hidden better.

The night-duty nurse comes in a little while later and shoots Sam full of something that makes him happy and relaxed, and he giggles his way through a bland meal of some kind of noodle casserole and green gelatin. Afterward he has a quick shower and uses the toilet, then he's bundled back into bed, arms and legs secured down and the thin sheet and blanket drawn up over him.

"Do the shadows ever talk to you?" He asks the nurse, eyes starting to droop as the happy wears off, leaving him to relax straight into sleep. "They talk to me sometimes. An' sometimes, they show me their teeth. I don't like the teeth."

"Sleep well, Mr. Winchester," the nurse says to him, ignoring his rambles about the shadows. They all do. The shadows probably told them to ignore him.

He sinks into sleep; into dreams about him, and Dean, and how they used to be, vague memories of _comfort_ and _happy_ blending with wishes to make a pretty, swirling landscape in his mind.

~~~~~

"So how're you doing today, Sam?" Dr. Daniels asks, and it's all Sam can do not to laugh. He spent most of the last three days strapped down, screaming until his throat was raw. How do you qualify something like that? Still, Daniels seems to listen to him, more than just an I'm-humoring-you thing, and Sam's grateful for that. He allows himself a small smile.

"I'm—I feel like I'm burning up from the inside out."

"Angry?"

Sam wants to shake his head because that? Is just too innocuous a word. He nods, though, because it'll have to do. "All the time. Hell, I'm angry sitting here, talking to you."

"Because you're talking to me?" Daniels makes a note on his pad, and looks back up.

"No."

"Then why?"

Why, indeed? Sam huffs out a breath, frustrated with his inability to put what he's feeling into words. "It's—everything. Stuff that happened when I was a kid, and then later, and arguments with Dean, and all the stuff with the—with—"

"The apocalypse." Daniels makes another note, and gives Sam a faint smile. "Even if I wasn't raised in a fairly religious household, the stuff that's been on the news for the past six months or so? That was enough to make me believe something was going on."

"It's hard to talk about," Sam says, thinking that's the understatement of the century. "It's hard to believe you believe me. Most people wouldn't."

Dr. Daniels shrugs. "Sometimes believing is just a matter of faith, and not necessarily the faith-in-God type. Just faith in a fellow human being."

"I used to have that. Faith," Sam adds at the open question on Daniels' face. "I don't know, anymore. I've lost a lot of my faith in pretty much everything."

"What about your brother? Have you lost faith in him?"

Sam thinks about Dean refusing to kill him, even when pushed and goaded toward it. About Dean selling his soul to bring Sam back. Dean coming to find him at Stanford. Dean holding him through nightmares and visions, bringing him chicken soup when he was sick. Patching him up, arguing with him, pranking him, teaching him to drive. Kissing him. Yielding his body to Sam.

Dean holding Sam's body after Lucifer was driven out of it, blood on both their hands, tears on Dean's cheeks while Sam's soul hovered just above them.

Dean walking away from him afterward, after his body and soul were rejoined.

"Sam?"

"I don't know," he says finally. "But I'm pretty sure he's lost faith in me."

"Does that make you angry?"

"I don't _know_," Sam says, the words sizzling in his mouth. "I've been so angry at everything for so long, I don't know how to separate stuff out."

"Alright." Daniels leans back in his chair. "Then tell me something you know for sure makes you angry."

Sam thinks for a minute, then sighs. "I wasn't raised religious—I don't think my Dad would've been into all that even if Mom hadn't died. But I always, I dunno, _believed_. That there was God, and angels watching over things, and I prayed. Maybe not as faithfully as I could've, but I prayed. Especially after stuff started with my, with the visions and the demon. I wanted to believe there was someone, a higher power, helping. Guiding." He bites his lip, chewing at the ridge of dry, chapped skin there. "Even after Dean went to Hell, and the angels came, and all the stuff that happened—then we're told that none of this was an accident. That it was set up to happen like this, that Dean and I, we were born to be the ones who started it and ended it. And I just, it makes me _furious_ to think about that, like, why bother? Why start the human race, and nurture it and watch it tear itself apart if you're just going to end it – or pit brothers against each other, again?

"I didn't used to believe in destiny, and even after I found out about the demon blood and learned about everything, it's still hard to wrap my head around the idea, because what's the fucking _point_ in anything, if the endgame is the same?"

Sam stops to take a couple slow, deep breaths, because just thinking about this makes his blood feel hotter inside his veins, and he's not strapped down to anything right now. Just sitting here in a chair, free to do anything the impulses urge him to do.

"Seriously, if it was all going to play out like it did regardless, why couldn't we at least have had good stuff happen – or not had the bad stuff."

Daniels frowns at his notepad. "Such as?"

"Like mom dying. Dad being alive, but absent. Jess dying. Me dying. _Dean_ dying. A whole lifetime of running, hiding, staying in the shadows same as the monsters we hunted. I mean, if it was our destiny to start the fucking apocalypse, why not at least let us have good memories before it? Why screw with us, and break us down, too?"

"So you don't have any good memories before things got bad?" Daniels tips his head slightly to the side. "Because most people have a mix of good and bad memories, Sam. That's how life works."

"No, I know." Sam runs his hands through his hair. "And I have good memories. Just, it feels like everything's tainted by the bad. No matter how good something was, there was something else equally awful to fuck it up."

He's starting to get agitated, and knows Dr. Daniels can sense it. See it.

"It's okay to get angry in here, Sam. Nothing's going to happen."

The bark of laughter that flies out of his mouth seems to take them both by surprise. "No offense, Doc, but there's a psychiatrist and an orderly in Oklahoma who would disagree. I nearly beat 'em both to death."

"But you didn't."

"Not for lack of trying. Well, the doctor, we thought he was—never mind. We thought he was our monster. But the orderly…" Sam shakes his head. "That was just me, caught up in it, giving in to it."

Dr. Daniels sighs and puts his notebook and clipboard down on the desk behind him, then looks straight at Sam. "Sam, not once since you've been here have you been violent toward any of the staff, or any of the other residents. You've been violent, sure. It's clear you're dealing with a lot of deep-seated rage that's built up over time. But that violence hasn't been aimed toward anyone, except yourself. We've restrained you at your insistence, but I'm not sure that's helping. In fact, I wonder if it's not making things worse."

Sam feels his eyebrows go up in astonishment. "What're you saying?"

"I think you're relying too much on the restraints, when what we need to be doing is working on getting you so you can manage the anger when it comes over you, not just let it engulf you until you ride it out. You're going to be dealing with this for a long time, Sam. Even if I only believed a fraction of what you've shared with me – " He holds a hand up to forestall the comment Sam's ready to make, " – I believe what you've told me, Sam. I'm just saying even if I _only_ believed a fraction of it, it's nothing you're going to just get over. Anger management is a long-haul thing. Medication, therapy, getting back into life."

"I don't—" Sam swallows. "I'm scared. That I'll hurt someone."

"Someone, like a stranger? Anyone who happens to get in your way? Or one person in particular?"

Sam nods. "Both, but yeah. Dean. We've hurt each other so much in the last few years, and I'm not sure how many more hits either of us can take."

Daniels' voice is gentle, cutting through Sam's anxiety. "Sometimes you have to take the chance. You might surprise yourself."

~~~~~

Dean's surprise at seeing Sam out of the restraints is an obvious, palpable thing. He stops just inside the door to Sam's room and looks around, like he's searching for hidden cameras and someone to jump out yelling, "psych!".

"Apparently," Sam begins, answering the unspoken but clear question, "my doctor agrees with you. He told me, basically, that I'm a chickenshit, hiding out here."

"He used those words?" A small smile plays at the corners of Dean's mouth, and Sam wonders what he would do if Sam kissed him there. It'd been so long, one of many things that fell by the wayside while they grappled with death and Hell, and demons and angels, and the apocalypse and their destinies.

"Well, he didn't _actually_ call me a chickenshit. But it was definitely implied."

Dean nods. "So when're you getting out?"

"Couple of days, a week at most. He's changing some of my meds. Upping the dosage on my anti-depressants, and adding some other stuff to help me kind of stay balanced—"

"So they make miracle drugs now?"

"Bite me," Sam says automatically, and grins when Dean gives him an honest-to-goodness actual smile. "_Anyway_, like I was saying before someone interrupted me, he wants to make sure I tolerate the meds okay, and then I'm free. Still gotta come back for counseling and stuff, but I'm supposed to, and I quote, find a place, get a job, start living."

"I got the place covered." Dean settles himself in the chair and tips it back against the wall, rocking back on two of the four legs.

This is the part Sam's been dreading, because he wants to assume, wants to believe, that Dean wants him – but he can't do either. He has to ask. Has to clarify. "Are you sure? That you—want me, y'know. Living with you?"

Dean snorts, but Sam sees the surprise on his face. "You're kidding me, right?"

Sam shakes his head, and pushes his hair back when it flops down over his eyes. "No. I mean, I want—that. It's gonna be weird enough staying put for a while. But I just. I've been in here a while. I didn't know if you'd, y'know. Want your space. Or whatever."

Dean's quiet for a while, staring steadily at Sam until he wants to squirm just to relieve some of the tension growing. "It's always amazed me," Dean begins, voice pitched low, almost gentle, "how someone as smart as you are can be such an idiot about some things."

"I—what?" Whatever Sam was expecting, it wasn't that. He frowns.

"Sam. Sammy. I've never not wanted you around. Even when we—when we took a break, I didn't _want_ that. Thought it was necessary, but didn't want it. So yeah. Got a little place not far from here; been squatting, but I don't think the owners are coming back."

Hope is bubbling through Sam, warm and comforting, and he smiles. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Little cabin-type thing. Pretty sweet, actually. Everything works, it's got two bedrooms, and there's a garage with a decent tool bench."

Two bedrooms. Some of the hope subsides, though Sam tells himself he was a fool for ever hoping for that again. He nods. "Sounds good."

"Better than a lot of folks got it right now."

Sam sighs. "How bad is it, out there? I don't—I mean, I remember some stuff. I know stuff is gone. Places, towns, all that. But is it…bad? Like, end of the world bad?" _How much of it is directly because of me, of Lucifer?_ He wants to ask that, but even if he could come up with the courage, he's pretty sure Dean won't answer.

Dean shrugs. "Bad in some areas, not so bad in others. Worst damage was highly populated areas – big cities. Lot of New York's gone, and the state of California's a whole lot narrower than it used to be."

"Stanford?"

Dean won't meet his eyes, and his voice has gone quiet again. Careful. "Gone."

For some reason, that hurts more than Sam would've thought. He severed his ties with California years ago, but so much of what made him happiest was there at Stanford, and it's painful to think of it being gone.

"What else?" He asks finally, when the silence stretches out awkwardly. Dean drops the chair down onto all four legs and sighs.

"Well it's not complete anarchy out there, if that's what you're asking. There's shit that's messed up – obviously, if cities are gone. There's roads destroyed, utilities down or damaged, and cell reception sucks – but the world's still standing. People are still living their lives, rebuilding, going about their business."

He wants to ask Dean about Bobby; feels the question pushing its way out, and turns away, knowing he's not ready to hear, even if Dean's ready to answer.

"I can get you a job on my work crew," Dean says after a moment. "If you wanna do construction. Might be good, get you outside, outta your head for a while."

Sam turns back around. "You don't think you'll get tired of seeing me all day?"

Dean gives him a half-smile. "As opposed to all the other days we spent twenty-four-seven together?"

"Well—"

"Sammy. Seriously. I'm not sure where you got the idea I don't want you around—"

"There's around, and then there's working and living together. I didn't think, I don't know, I just." Sam gives up when Dean's smile flashes wide and white, if brief. "Fine, I'll shut up now."

"_Thank you_. So, was that a yes on the job?"

"Yeah, I guess? It's something to start with, anyway."

"Attaboy." Dean slaps his hands on his thighs, then pushes to his feet. "I got someplace I gotta be in half an hour. You have my cell number; when you're ready to get sprung from here, call me. You'll probably have to leave a message because like I said, reception isn't for shit anymore, and I don't get a lot of the calls."

"It'll be a few days, but yeah. I'll give you a call." Sam wonders where Dean has to be and feels something inside him twist with jealousy and uncertainty. Probably a girl somewhere, and he really needs to get over this, because Dean isn't his, hasn't been his in a long time. He's damn lucky they're both still alive and kicking to be brothers, much less anything else.

~~~~~

It turns out to be ten days before Dr. Daniels releases Sam.

He has some really odd reactions to the first medication change, and an actual allergic reaction to the second one, hives and shortness of breath, all of it.

In the midst of dealing with the hives that break out fucking _everywhere_, Sam also has a complete rage-induced meltdown triggered by too little sleep, and a fellow patient mouthing off about how the whole world has gone to shit and maybe it should've just ended, and too bad it didn't.

It takes three orderlies to pull Sam off the other guy – cowering and gibbering in fear, hands and arms curled up over his head to try and stop the blows – and then Sam spends the night strapped down physically and mentally, shot full of so many drugs he doesn't care what happens around him.

When he opens his eyes to the early morning light, feeling lucid and calm again, _finally_, Dean is asleep beside him, arms resting on the mattress, his head pillowed on his arms. For the first time in longer than Sam can recall, Dean looks peaceful, looks almost young again, all the stress and tension melted away.

The straps Sam went to sleep with are undone, leaving his arms free and loose beneath the sheet and blanket covering him, and Sam wonders if Dean did that – and when. He wiggles one arm out slowly until he can touch Dean, just a gentle touch to his head, fingers slipping through longer-than-usual hair. It's soft, almost silky, and Sam closes his eyes and lets the sensation just wash through him and over him.

He's almost asleep again, fingers rubbing lightly, slowly, when Dean shivers. His voice is sleep-rough, dark and gravelly, and Sam feels it like a bolt of lightning through him. "Dude. Are you petting me?"

Sam freezes, then coughs and slowly withdraws his hand. "Maybe?"

"Huh." Dean gives him a sleepy smile, then sits up and stretches, arms high up over his head, shirt riding up to show a slice of belly. He yawns and holds the stretch, then relaxes back against the chair. "So, what happened yesterday? I showed up last night expecting you'd be telling me we could head home today, and they tell me you flipped out completely and had to be sedated and restrained."

"Not really sure," Sam says, frowning as he pushes himself to sit up. He scratches at a patch of blisters on his arm, but they don't itch as badly as they did. "I just—I don't know. One of the guys in the common room was talking about stuff, how it seemed like the world was ending and everything was so bad and maybe it should've ended, and I just kind of lost it. I don't remember much beyond hearing him say that, and waking up just now. Just, I was completely _gone_."

"Gone."

"Yeah." Sam looks over Dean's head at the morning sun, blood-red spreading across the horizon. "I don't know if I can—"

"Yes, you can." Dean scowls. "So you lost it. Big deal. It's gonna be okay, Sam."

"If I do it again? If it's you I'm whaling on?"

Dean snorts. "I'll hit back."

"Would you really?"

"Jesus Christ, Sam." Dean's early morning calm is dissolving, a tic appearing where he's clenching his jaw. "You'll have drugs, you'll have hard labor, you'll have _me_, okay? I'm not gonna let you hurt anyone else, and I can take whatever you dish out."

"Fine." Sam crosses his arms over his chest. He knows he's pretty much sulking, but he's afraid Dean's not taking him seriously.

"Fine." Dean stares at Sam, and Sam stares back, and it's totally a stalemate that would've gone on for who knows how long, except for the door opening and Dr. Daniels coming in.

"Morning, Sam—oh, hello, Dean. You're back awfully early, aren't you?"

"More like still here." Dean scoots the chair back out of the way, then stretches again. "I should go—gotta get ready for work."

"Do you have a minute or two? I was going to talk to Sam about his release." Dean looks like he'd like to be anywhere else right now, but he nods, and Dr. Daniels smiles. "Super. Sam, I think we're going to let you out of here tomorrow. I want to keep you today to make sure you're not going to have any problems adjusting to the new meds, and to make sure there aren't any side effects like the hives."

"Are you going to keep him strapped down?" Dean's staring at a spot somewhere over Sam's head, not quite looking at either him or Dr. Daniels.

"No. He doesn't need it. We only strapped him down last night to give the sedatives a chance to kick in."

"He was still strapped down when I got here," Dean says, and Daniels frowns.

"He was? What time did you get here?"

Dean shrugs. "I don't know. He was sound asleep, though. Didn't so much as twitch when I called his name. I waited for the nurse or orderly to come in and undo 'em, and then undid them myself. Ankle straps are still on," he adds, looking toward Sam. "You should probably undo them before you try to get out of bed."

That Dean is telling him that means he's still pissed, because Sam knows ordinarily Dean doesn't miss a chance to do something – or allow Sam to do something – he can laugh at Sam for.

"I'll have to look into that," Dr. Daniels says, frowning. "But no, Sam's not going to be restrained, unless something should happen again. But I think it was probably more an exception than the rule, and he's fine. How're you feeling, Sam?"

"Okay, I guess," Sam says slowly, watching Dean. He blinks when Dean refuses to look at him, and looks up at Daniels. "Not sure I should be going home—" He cuts off when Dean sighs and fidgets. "Um. What time, tomorrow?"

"Dean, are you going to be able to pick Sam up?"

"Yeah. Just tell me when I need to be here; I'll clear it with the foreman today."

Daniels looks at Sam. "How about afternoon? That way you can still be here for group."

"That's fine. Dean?"

"I get off at four anyway; I can be here a few minutes after that." He looks at Daniels, then finally at Sam. "I have a—thing, tomorrow. About seven. But that's time to get you home and settled, right?"

A thing? Like the thing he had last week, and the week before that? Again Sam wonders if it's a girl; though if Dean's dating someone, wouldn't it be more often than once a week? He realizes Dean and Daniels are both looking at him and nods. "Yeah, um. That's fine. I'll be ready."

As ready as he's likely to be, heading back out into the world.

"Great!" Dean says, with what is so obviously fake enthusiasm. "I'll see you then, Sam." He pats Sam's leg, calling attention to the ankle restraints Sam hadn't really noticed before, along with the sudden itching, hives under the straps undoubtedly irritated by the leather, and sweat.

"See you then," Sam echoes, his chest painfully tight. Daniels keeps talking after Dean leaves, but Sam doesn't hear a word of it. He's too caught up in anxiety and fear to let anything else in.

On to Part Two

~~~~~

It's been four months since the world didn't end bloody or in a blaze of fire and destruction, and other than a couple walks in the courtyard behind the main wing of the hospital, Sam hasn't been outside. He stands just outside the doors, breathing in and out slowly, an even, measured rhythm to trick his mind into ignoring the anxiety of _standing outside_.

He hears the rumble of the Impala even before he sees her; low, grumbling purr like a giant cat waking from slumber. It's almost as comforting to see the car, all sleek, black lines, as it is to see Dean behind the wheel. He stands and stares for a few moments, until Dean ducks his head to call out the open window,

"Well c'mon, Sammy. I know I'm pretty, but I ain't getting any younger sitting here."

Sam snorts. Such a Dean-thing to say. He tosses his bag into the backseat and folds himself down into the passenger seat. "Home, James."

"You're not nearly as funny as you think you are, dude."

"Funny enough," Sam counters, staring out the window as Dean guides the car out of the parking lot and onto the street.

Kansas was ground zero for the final showdown, finishing things where they first began. Sam's not entirely sure where they are now; somewhere along the east coast, probably, but hell, Sam was barely conscious those first couple of days after they put Lucifer down. Dean could've driven them anywhere and he wouldn't have noticed. He keeps looking, eyes scanning the landscape hungrily, noting the streets and cars and people, and the signs here and there that yeah, the world came close to ending. Close, but not quite.

"Where are we, anyway?"

Dean looks over at him, eyes hidden behind shades. "New London, Connecticut."

"Oh, wow. Really?"

Dean shrugs. "Wanted to get the hell out of dodge after everything was done. I hit the first major interstate heading east, and then headed north when I ran out of east. Southbound was blocked," he adds. "Probably still is. There was a lot of damage all over the place, especially right along the coast – earthquake-type damage. So I just went with the first main road that was functional and kept going. I'd planned on looping around and heading back west a bit, or maybe further north, but things—happened."

Things.

_Sam_ happened. He remembers, more-or-less, them stopping somewhere. Needed to get some food, something to drink. Dean was still pale and trembling, shooting troubled glances toward Sam in the rearview. They went into a bar, restaurant, something. Someone said something to one of them, and Sam snapped.

"How'd you get me out of there?"

"Clocked you a good one on the jaw," Dean says with a small smile. "You went down like a ton of bricks; I threw your ass back in the car and drove until I couldn't keep going." He tips his head toward the window. "This is where we ended up."

"Huh."

The rest of the drive is quiet. Dean hums along with radio – surprisingly not cock rock, but something more bluesy – and Sam watches out the window. He sees some areas that look damaged and abandoned, and a lot more that don't. Some businesses are obviously closed up and gone, but there's a McDonald's they pass that's open, as well as a Starbucks.

"Guess it would take more than the apocalypse to end McDonald's or Starbucks," he says, and Dean snorts in laughter.

"Or Wal-Mart."

Two more turns and then they're on a side street, off the main drag, and Dean's guiding the car into a driveway. "Home sweet home," he says, bringing them to a stop in front of a stand-alone garage.

Sam remembers Dean saying it was like a cabin. The structure in front of him doesn't look very cabin-like; really it mostly looks like a small, neat Cape-style house. It has a tiny porch on the front, and he glimpses what is probably a deck off the back.

"It's cute," he says finally, when it seems like Dean's waiting for him to say something. "Does it, is it furnished? You said you were squatting?"

"Yeah. I found it driving around one day, getting a feel for the area. I think the owners probably just loaded up the family car and took off; no one's been back and I've been staying here for over three months." He leads the way up the steps and unlocks the door, and Sam blinks.

"You have a key? How?"

"Called a locksmith and told 'em I'd lost my keys, and wanted the lock changed."

Sam laughs.

Inside is dim and cool, even though it's fairly warm outside. The floors are hardwood, with a couple of area rugs scattered around. There's a sofa and a reclining chair, and a couple of tables – plus a nice-looking, largish TV against one wall. A fireplace. Through the archway looks to be a kitchen and dining area; off to the side of the front door is a staircase.

"Two bedrooms upstairs, across the hall from each other, with the bathroom in the middle. Both got beds and dressers, and there were sheets and stuff in the hall closet. I got rid of everything that seemed like personal stuff that got left behind. Boxed it up and took it down to the church down the street; they're running a shelter for folks who got displaced." Dean glances at his watch. "I seriously gotta get going, so I'm not late—there's stuff in the kitchen to eat, and you can just poke around. I'll be back in a couple of hours."

He's not going to ask. He's not going to ask. He's not—"Where're you going?"

"Just an appointment I need to keep. But it's on the other side of town, and traffic gets wonky sometimes."

Sam nods. "I'll—be here, I guess. See what's on TV."

"No cable. Sorry, man. But there's DVDs. Cabinet under the TV." Dean cuffs Sam upside the head – gently – and smiles. "Glad to have you home, Sammy. Been boring without having your ass around."

Sam manages a half-smile. "Thanks, I think."

Dean's out the door before Sam can say anything else, and for a long moment he feels a lot like he's felt coming down from the rages these last few months: empty and alone, just yawning darkness opening up before him.

He shakes himself impatiently and throws his bag over his shoulder. The staircase is steep and narrow, typical of older houses, and Sam wonders idly when it was built.

The bedrooms are nearly identical: both have big beds, bigger than Sam's had in a long while, with a nightstand and lamp, and matching dresser. The only difference at all is the room to the right has a set of bookshelves in it. After a quick glance at the other room, which is clearly where Dean's been sleeping since the bed's messed up and there are things scattered around, Sam goes into the empty room and sits down on the bed. For the first time since his sophomore year at Stanford, he has a room of his own and a bed that looks like it'll fit him comfortably and _be_ comfortable – and he doesn't want it.

~~~~~

Sam's just sitting down at the table when the door opens. Dean's grinning and sniffing the air as he makes his way into the kitchen. "Make enough for me, too?"

"Yeah, there's plenty—still on the stove." It's nothing fancy, just a tuna casserole thing with a small salad, but it sounded good. Comforting. Sam still remembers Jess making tuna casserole when she wanted what she called 'comfort food', and somewhere along the way it became that for him, too.

Dean serves himself and grabs a beer out of the fridge, glancing at Sam. "You want one?"

"Nah. Not sure how alcohol mixes with all the crap I gotta take." Which reminds him, and he digs around in his pocket for the pills he's supposed to take when he eats dinner. He breathes in when Dean walks past him to sit down, but there's no hint of perfume, or anything like that. Maybe a whiff of cigarette smoke, but nothing else. "How'd your whatever go?"

Dean looks up from his plate, eyebrow raised. "Fine." He shovels a couple mouthfuls in, chugs half his beer and belches, then says, "you start work with me Tuesday."

"Tuesday? Not Monday?"

"Monday's Labor day. No work."

"It's September? Already?" Sam sets his fork down. "Really?"

"Well, yeah. You spent the summer in the loony bin, dude. Didn't you know that?"

Sam shrugs and pokes at his salad. "Time kind of passes differently in there. Especially when you're zonked out on sedatives, or out of your mind in general."

"I guess." Dean tilts his head. "We could go to the beach this weekend. Get you some sun. You're kind of pasty pale, Sammy."

Saying Sam's surprised by that would be like saying the Grand Canyon is a huge hole in the ground. He blinks at Dean for a minute, mouth opening and closing but no words coming out, and Dean waves his hand around, says, "never mind. It was just an idea."

"No—it's. That'd be great. You gonna invite your girlfriend?"

Dean freezes, fork halfway to his mouth. "Girlfriend? Huh?"

"Isn't that where you're going, your meetings or whatever?" Wow. Sam's pretty sure he hasn't felt this awkward in _years_. His face heats up when Dean keeps staring at him, a half-smile teasing one corner of his mouth up. Sam clears his throat and looks down at his plate. "Never mind. Just, if you want to, that's fine."

"Awfully generous of you, but I was thinking just you and me." Dean kicks Sam's ankle under the table, and Sam jerks, then jerks again when he bangs his shin against the table leg. "Seriously, Sam, _girlfriend_? Way to be subtle, dude. If you wanna know what I'm doing, just ask."

"Because you're so eager to share stuff?" He sounds cranky, even to himself, and Sam stabs his fork into his salad. "I did ask you, earlier," he points out. "You blew me off."

"I did." Dean leans back in his chair and lets loose with another belch; one that Sam's certain should make the walls shake. He scowls at Dean who smiles calmly back at him. "Only 'cos I didn't have time to get into it if you had questions. So ask me again."

Sam eyes Dean warily, because he's really not up to being messed with and how often does Dean just offer up information about himself without a catch? "So, where'd you go, earlier?"

"I had a counseling appointment."

"You had a—what?"

Dean tips his head back and drains his beer, then gives Sam a look. One that clearly says Sam's an idiot. "Counseling appointment. I've been going for a while now."

"Really? Why?" It's not like he doesn't know Dean has issues – with a capital I – (and he's not throwing stones; facts are facts) but never in a million years would Sam have pictured his brother _willingly_, voluntarily, going to therapy sessions.

"Yeah. Just, y'know. Didn't want you to be all alone in your crazy."

Sam chokes out something that could be either a laugh or a sob, he isn't sure, then manages to grit out, "thanks, I appreciate that."

"You better. Therapy is expensive shit. 'S why I've been working a shitload of overtime." The legs of Dean's chair make a rough scraping noise when he pushes back from the table, and he reaches for both their plates as he stands. "You done? Or want more?"

"Nah, I'm finished."

"You didn't eat much." Dean's frowning at him, just a little, and the urge to stand up and press a kiss to the wrinkled spot between his eyes is almost overwhelming. Sam looks away.

"Not really that hungry, I guess," he says softly. Dean's spent the last three, almost four, months working who knows how many hours a week to pay for Sam's hospital stay and so they could get better, and maybe they can have a future where people and monsters and demons and angels aren't constantly trying to kill them.

It'd be a nice change.

"You, um. Making any progress with—stuff?" There's a noodle on the table, and Sam pokes at it with his fingernail, trying to ignore all the crap suddenly racing through his head again; all the taunts from all the demons, and the angels, the way Ruby played him, the way he and Dean played each other and pushed each other, hurt each other over and over again.

"Some." Dean's scraping the plates clean, and the sound of flatware against cheap porcelain is grating and sharp, like a spike driving down into the center of Sam's mind, slicing through images and memories. He lifts his head to look at his brother, but Dean's moving back and forth at the counter, running a sink of soapy water and rummaging through a cabinet for something. So domestic, so settled; he has a routine and he's comfortable with it, and Sam feels like a damn outsider. A visitor in his brother's home, even if Dean says it's his, too. He can't decide if that feeling makes him sad, or angry, or both.

"Sam?"

Something warm and wet hits his cheek, and Sam jerks his head up, wiping at it. Soap bubbles. "Huh?"

"You still with me?"

"Yeah—why?"

"Because I've been talking for like five minutes here, and you haven't commented or grunted, or anything. You looked like you were zoned out."

"Sorry. Was just thinking, I guess. Kind of tired."

"So go to bed." Dean sounds so calm, so fucking reasonable, so—God. Sam doesn't even know what. But it's pissing him off, and it's not good for him to get pissed off. He snorts at that, thinking _you wouldn't like me when I'm angry_, and laughs out loud at that. Dean eyes him, obviously unsure what to think. "Sam? You losing your mind for real?"

Sam's still laughing, and he can hear the hysteria in it. Feels it bubbling up inside him, spurring it on. He laughs harder, hardly able to breathe, and God, it's making his ribs ache and his stomach hurt, but he can't stop. All he can do is let it roll up through him and out, like a pressure cooker whose lid finally came off. Distantly he's aware of Dean saying his name again, calling it a couple of times, and warmth wrapping around his arms, clenching tight, and everything vibrating. Shaking. Dean's shaking him, his mouth moving. Sam. Sammy, stop. Sam, c'mon.

It doesn't end all at once. Sam feels the hysteria drain out of him slowly; it's replaced with a deep sadness welling up from far down inside him, and the laughter gives way to tears. He's not sure how long he cries before he becomes aware of Dean hanging on to him, holding on like he's afraid Sam's going to rise up and float away. He's standing in front of Sam, hands heavy and hot on Sam's shoulders, anchoring him to the here and now. As the tears fade and everything else comes back into focus, Sam hears his brother whispering, "…s'okay, Sammy. You're gonna be okay. I gotcha."

Dean startles when Sam shifts, but he doesn't move away. He holds on, hands sweeping over Sam's back, rubbing at tense muscles, ruffling the short hairs at the nape of Sam's neck. Sam's face feels hot and wet, and he leans forward to rest his head against Dean, breathing slowly and deeply, trying to remember all of Dr. Daniels' instructions about calm breathing, calm body, calm mind. Dean holds him close, and it's the most comforting thing Sam can imagine right now. Dean smells good, rich layers of sweat and aftershave, that hint of tobacco, the malty scent of beer. He smells like home, and safety and everything good in Sam's life, and Sam can't help but wiggle just a little closer, moving his head to take a deeper, fuller breath.

There's a quick gasp above him, then Dean's voice, heavy with amusement. "Did you just wipe your nose on me?"

Sam hiccups once and draws back enough to look up at Dean. "Absolutely not."

"You totally did. Admit it." Dean's looking down at his shirt like he expects to see gobs of snot dripping down or something. Sam just snuffles and leans back, missing Dean's touch as soon as he lifts his hands. "You okay now, Sammy?"

"I think so, yeah." He sighs and rubs at his eyes, sore and swollen from all the crying. "I think I'm gonna take a shower and go to bed."

"Sounds like a good plan," Dean says, pulling away completely and heading back to the sink. Sam wishes he had the strength to reach out the way he wants to, to pull Dean into an embrace.

He's too afraid of what might happen, to try. Too afraid of what he might do if Dean rejects him.

~~~~~

_Lucifer is huge, all-encompassing, all-consuming, filling him up and swallowing him down. There's nothing left of him, just black hunger, hatred, a rabid wish of moremoremoremore until there's nothing left of him, nothing left of anything, it's all been swallowed down to disappear into that overwhelming blackness--_

"Sammy, c'mon , wake up—"

Hands. Hands on him, shaking him, poking and pushing at him. Dean. Dean's shaking him. Sam squints up, trying to figure out why Dean's there. "Wha--?"

"I think you were dreaming, man." Dean's voice is rough, night-time gruff, and he clears his throat. "You kept yelling, I don't even know if it was words, just, yelling."

Sam rubs his eyes, still sticky and stinging from earlier, and blinks until Dean's face swims into focus in the weak light. "I was—yeah. Nightmare," he adds, probably unnecessarily. "Sorry I woke you up."

"Eh." Dean releases him and it's then Sam realizes he's sitting right on the edge of Sam's bed, miles of nearly-naked warm skin so close. "It's a little past five, so it's mostly morning. You wanna get up and we can get around for the beach? Or you wanna try and sleep some more?"

Sam's tempted to say, _I'll sleep if you lay here with me,_ but doesn't. Instead he yawns and stretches, shaking his head to try and get the dreams of Lucifer out. "We could get up. I don't feel like sleeping anymore."

"So what was the nightmare?" Dean hasn't moved yet, just sits there warm and inviting, and God, Sam _wants_. He shakes his head at Dean, not ready to talk about it. Not sure he can talk about it.

"Just, nightmare stuff."

"Uh-huh." Yeah, that probably wasn't terribly convincing. Sam wouldn't believe himself, either. Dean gives him a steady look for a minute, but Sam just stares back, stalemate, until Dean stands up and heads toward the door. "Get your ass in gear, Sammy."

~~~~~

After breakfast – and Sam's not so out of it that he doesn't notice Dean eating Raisin Bran, and holy shit, is this really his brother? – they throw together some sandwiches and put them into the cooler along with some sodas and some beer. Dean tosses in a bag of potato chips, and Sam grabs a couple of bananas off the counter (seriously, Dean bought bananas at the grocery store? Sam wonders if he needs to do an exorcism).

The sense of surreal continues when Dean tosses what is obviously a pair of board shorts at Sam, muttering, "I hope they fit your gigantic ass. Probably end up looking like short-shorts or something." Sam flips him off and goes to change.

The shorts fit just fine, as it turns out.

They load everything into the Impala's trunk: cooler, a couple of towels and an old ratty blanket Sam thinks has been in the back of the Impala since it first rolled off the assembly line.

They head up the coast, instead of hitting the local beach, Dean whistling tunelessly as the radio stations fade in and out. Sam watches out the window and is hit with the memories of a thousand different road trips over the years. It's simultaneously a painful ache and a welcome warmth to realize the only road trips they're likely to take anymore will be ones like this: for fun, because they want to.

"We're done hunting, aren't we?" He asks after thinking it over for a while.

Dean looks over at him, mouth set into a small frown. "Probably. Least for a while. Got shit we need to work out…and Sammy, man," he shakes his head. "I'm tired, you know? Tired of that life."

"What happened to the family business, saving people, all that?" He's not trying to pick a fight, not really. But for as far back as he can remember, Dean was all about hunting.

"Been telling you for a while that I was ready to be done. And after all the crap in the last couple of years. I dunno, man. It's like we have a second chance, and honestly? I want to settle down. Maybe it won't last, I don't know. But I'd like to try. The fight's over for us. Let someone else deal with it."

"Huh." It's so far from the _it's never going to BE over, there will always be evil to fight_ Sam remembers Dean telling him a few years ago, a lifetime ago it feels like, that it's hard to process.

"That's all? Just 'huh'?"

"Well, not sure what else I could say to that." Sam shrugs. "To be honest, I feel like I woke up and stepped into some sort of twilight zone or something."

"What d'you mean?"

"You're like Mister Domestic-man, now, eating bran cereal and buying fruit and vegetables and washing up the dishes—and you're wearing _shorts_, Dean!" Sam swallows down the hysteria that seems to still be lurking just beneath the surface. "It's just a lot to take in all at once. Then you tell me you're – we're – done hunting, and I keep wondering who you are."

Dean smiles, but it looks strained. Uncomfortable. "Well, I've had a few months to make the adjustment. While you were hanging out at Brookside." There's a pause, and Sam can almost see Dean trying to figure out which words to say. "I've been done for a while, Sammy. I stayed in it because you stayed in it, because you were determined to find out what the deal was with Azazel. Then there was the whole thing with you dying, and me going to Hell, and all the shit that came afterward, and enough's enough, man. I've watched you die – killed you myself, one of the those – and I don't want to keep doing it. If you want to keep hunting—"

"I don't," Sam says, the words out before he realizes it. "I really don't." He's kind of surprised to realize he really means it.

"Okay, then. Let's just…enjoy our second chance, or whatever it is."

Sam snorts. "I think we're probably onto our third or fourth chance at this point."

"Whatever, dude. Whichever number it is, let's enjoy it. Okay?"

"Sure." Sam nods. It feels like a resolution of sorts, and maybe that's appropriate, too. It's not a new year, exactly, but it might as well be, with the getting out of the hospital thing. New year, new life, new chance at that new life. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

It might be his imagination, but it seems as though Dean's hands tighten on the steering wheel, just a little. Sam waits another beat or two, then says, "Raisin Bran? Really?"

"Bite me, Sammy."

~~~~~

Sam nods off in the car, the smooth growl of the car's engine and the warmth of the sun lulling him into a doze.

It's not a deep sleep; on some level he's aware of CCR playing on the radio, and Dean singing along low, almost under his breath, and the occasional bump when the tires hit a rough patch on the asphalt. But it's peaceful, restful, and best of all, it feels safe. It's not the black yawning chasm of night time sleep, when he's by himself in a bed in a room without Dean in it.

He comes fully awake when the occasional bump in the road becomes constant, the tires making a dub-dub-dub sound as the asphalt changes over to something like gravel, or uneven pavement, and sits up rubbing at his eyes.

"You look like you're about six when you do that," Dean says, mouth tilting upward at the corners. "And your hair's sticking up."

Sam reaches to smooth it down then scowls when Dean laughs. "Funny. Such a funny guy."

"I try."

"Don't give up your day job just yet."

They're at the beach; Sam smells the salt in the air, and high above them he hears the gulls screeching at one another. There are brightly colored sun umbrellas, and people of all shapes, sizes, colors and ages running around, laughing and yelling. Kids building sand castles, guys throwing Frisbees back and forth, or chasing girls wearing bright-and-tiny bikinis.

Dean parks them, and Sam gets out slowly, giving his body a chance to stretch and shake off the several hours of sitting folded up. When he looks up, Dean's watching him, looking at him in a way Sam hasn't seen from him in ages. It makes him warmer than even the sun's managed so far.

"You planning to go in the water?"

"Nah." Dean shakes his head. "I don't care if the water's had all summer to warm up, this far north, it's bound to be really fucking cold."

Sam makes a mental note to push Dean in at the first opportunity. Just because.

"Let's go stake out a spot. Did you bring sunscreen?"

Dean gives him a look like he's crazy. "The point is to _ get_ some sun, Sammy. You look kinda like Casper."

"Not really wanting to get sunburned, Dean."

"You're not going to get sunburned. Dude, you tan better than I do."

"Whatever." Sam's just not going to waste his breath lecturing about sun poisoning and skin cancer, and how sunscreen doesn't keep you from tanning or whatever, just prevents the bad radiation crap. It's not worth it, because it would go in one ear and out the other, and Dean would still tell him he doesn't need it.

It's actually a pretty awesome day, though Sam leaves his t-shirt on to cut down the sun exposure. He and Dean get talked into joining a group of people playing volleyball, though Dean gets distracted when one of the girls on the opposite side takes her shirt off, revealing the tiniest bikini top Sam thinks he's ever seen. He's pretty sure he's seen band-aids that were bigger, and she's practically falling out of her little scraps of cloth – and Dean totally misses the serve because he's ogling.

There's a tug-of-war afterward, right on the water's edge, and Sam makes sure that when he loses his footing he pushes Dean into the water. It's worth getting splashed to hear Dean sputtering and cussing a blue streak over the very, very chilly water.

They head back to their blanket and towels after the tug-of-war (their team won, which made up for not winning at volleyball), and the sandwiches and chips taste really good, if a little soggy from sitting in the melting ice all afternoon. By the time they're done, and Dean's on his third beer and Sam's nursing a second soda, the sun's starting to set and the noise on the beach is going down as families pack themselves back into their cars to head for wherever home is.

It's nearly dark when Dean pulls a plastic bag out his duffle and nudges Sam. "Wanna see if you can find some driftwood?"

"Why?" Turns out the bag has marshmallows, a couple Hershey bars, and a small baggie of graham crackers. Sam blinks. "S'mores? Really?" He sounds like he's eight, and doesn't even care when Dean laughs at him.

It's one of his most favorite memories, actually, him and Dean huddled around a tiny charcoal grill, holding out sticks with a couple marshmallows each. Dean had to keep pulling Sam's hand back – Sam thinks he was five, maybe – and telling him to wait, that the marshmallows would be better if they cooked just a little longer. He doesn't remember where they were living at that time – Ann Arbor? Maybe. But it doesn't matter. Just mattered that Dean watched Sam watching a show with kids going camping, and toasting marshmallows and making s'mores, and gave him that experience as best he could.

He comes back to the blanket with a small pile of wood, and Dean's found a couple long, thin sticks to use to put the marshmallows on.

The fire crackles merrily, though Sam's pretty sure they're not supposed to have a fire in a non-fire spot on an open, public beach. He hopes no one comes and gives them grief about it, because for the first time in a while the rage feels quiet inside him, though he knows it's probably more illusion than anything else. It's not _gone_, he knows that much. Maybe it never will be completely gone. Maybe that's what Dr. Daniels was trying to get him to understand: it's not going to go away, so he has to learn how to live with it and manage it, and not let it control him.

"Dude, your marshmallow's on fire." Dean pokes him.

"Oh, crap!" Sam pulls it away from the flames quickly, and blows on it. It's not totally burned, just a little singed on one side. It's okay, he doesn't mind it like that; they're usually gooey and melty inside when they're a little singed.

The s'mores are awesome, all gooey marshmallow and chocolately goodness, and Sam knows he's making little happy noises when he eats his – Dean's snickering at him, and he doesn't care. He makes and eats three of them before relaxing back on the blanket to stare up at the sky sparkling with stars.

"Comfy, princess?" Dean sounds amused, and Sam glances over at him, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"I'm awesome. Obviously s'mores are the cure to all that ails me."

Dean laughs outright, then leans in. "You've got some chocolate—" He wipes his thumb over Sam's lower lip, a slow caress, and Sam doesn't even think, just opens his mouth and licks at Dean's thumb; tastes the salt and smoke mix with the chocolate. Dean groans low in his throat and Sam sucks at his thumb, teeth scoring the flesh, tongue lapping to soothe it. "Sammy, Christ—"

He cuts off whatever else Dean might've said, pulling Dean down to kiss him, tongue pressing against warm, plush lips until Dean opens with a soft moan. He tastes Dean completely, tongue teasing around the inside of Dean's mouth, relearning territory he's never really forgotten; the warm, wet heat he's missed desperately.

Dean looks as stunned as Sam feels when they part, and they stay quiet as they put out the fire and pack things up, and head back to the car.

Sam touches Dean's arm as he turns to move to the driver's side. "Want me to drive?"

Dean hesitates for a minute, then flips the keys over. "Sure."

They stand there for a moment, awkward silence stretching out between them, and Sam gropes for something to say, wanting to acknowledge this thing between them that's been there forever and never really gone away, even when they weren't actively doing anything about it. Mostly he wants to pull Dean close and tell him _I love you, I want you, I need you so bad_. He's not going to, but God, he wants to.

He settles for just starting up the car, and if they're quiet for the drive back home, at least it evens out into a comfortable silence after a while, rather than the strained, awkward silence right after they kissed.

 

On to Part Three  


~~~~~

They lay in bed that night, separate beds and separate bedrooms, staring at each other across the hall. It's not much of a distance but it feels like miles. Sam wonders what Dean would do if he got up and crossed that distance; if he climbed into bed with him. They wouldn't even have to have sex, though fucking Dean into a blissed out stated sounds pretty good, actually.

Sam just wants to hold Dean close. Touch him gently, reverently. Stroke over the planes of Dean's chest just to touch him. To ground himself.

He blinks when Dean shifts in his bed, kicking the covers down. In the cool moonlight streaming in through partially open curtains, there it is. Dean's rubbing himself, hand cupping and stroking, nothing between his hand and his dick but thin boxer-briefs.

This is how it started, all those years ago. Them lying awake in separate beds in some long-forgotten motel room, staring at each other, watching each other jerk off.

Sam kicks his own covers down and pushes his shorts down too. He's half hard, cock plumped but not erect, though it lengthens and thickens as he cups and rubs, reaching down to roll his balls. Across from him Dean's moved onto his back, cock standing tall while he strokes slowly up and down, drawing it out.

"Dean."

"Shh. Just--shh." Dean strokes a little faster and turns his head so he's looking at Sam. Staring at him. Sam feels hot, flushed all over, but he nods. He can do quiet.

It's been a long time since Sam jerked off; before he was in the hospital, before all the crap with Lucifer. He goes from mostly hard to _right there_ in just a few strokes, blood pounding through him hot and fast. Dean's arching upward to meet his hand and Sam loses track of his rhythm for a minute watching his brother, the way his back bows, the way his skin seems to shimmer, bathed in streaks of light and shadow. When Dean spreads his legs and reaches down between them Sam shudders and grips himself tighter, harder, hand moving faster on himself.

He wants to be there, nudging Dean's legs apart. Wants to be the one to touch that small, pink hole and work it open. Wants to press himself inside and join them—

He cries out when he comes, caught off guard by the suddenness of it. It feels like electric shocks sparking through him and he jerks himself faster, grunting when liquid heat spatters over his hand and his belly. When he's done coming he turns to watch Dean, sees him arch upward hard and sharp as he comes.

They come down together, soft strokes and touches in tandem, eyes never leaving the other.

Sam falls asleep with his come drying on his stomach and the sounds Dean made, the way he looked so beautiful, front and center in his mind.

~~~~~

Sam wakes up scratching at his stomach, and grimaces at the sticky mess dried on his skin. First order of business for the day is take a shower, and at some point he should probably unpack his duffle and get himself settled in. Make a routine for himself the way Dean has.

Thinking about his brother makes Sam linger in the doorway, eyes tracking the length of him. Dean's on his stomach, one arm flung out, the other tucked up under his pillow. He still has his shorts on – he never kicked them off, unlike Sam – but they don't hide anything; instead they accentuate the curve and swell of his ass, the strength of his thighs.

Sam watches for another minute, leaning against the doorway. He holds his breath when Dean rolls over, mumbling something so low Sam can't make out the words, but Dean doesn't wake up. Just shifts around before settling back into sleep, skin gleaming in the early morning light, the dark lines of the anti-possession tattoo pulling Sam's eyes to it like a beacon. He touches the spot on his chest where his rests, fingers tracing the lines while his eyes follow Dean's, thinking of the day they decided to get them done.

_"You're sure about this?" Dean hung back, hovered just out of the doorway. Above the door was a neon sign proclaiming **Tattoos While U Wait**, which made Sam snark about the improbability of there being any other kind._

"Charms can break, fall off, whatever." Sam tipped his head toward the door. "A tattoo is pretty much forever."

"Yeah--yeah." A quick nod, then Dean shouldered his way past Sam to push the door. "You coming, or what?"

The paper with the design crinkled in Sam's pocket; he'd given himself a paper cut rubbing his finger against the edge over and over. He kept rubbing, just enough angle to feel the paper press and push against the cut. Enough to feel that spark of pain, to send endorphins skittering through him.

"Sam." Dean held the door open, scowl fixed firmly in place as if to tell Sam this was your idea, dumbass, now get in here.__

"Yeah. Coming." He dragged his fingertip across the paper again, letting the quick swirl of pain clear his head. A corner of it was red with blood when Sam handed the design over to the tattoo artist; he shrugged at the grimace the guy gave him. "Must've cut myself, sorry."

Tattoo guy -- his name turned out to be Drew -- gave a shrug back. "Happens, no big. Wicked design," he said idly, staring at the paper. "Way cooler than promise rings. So who's first?"

Sam looked at Dean, who stared back before swinging himself into the chair. "Guess I will."

Neither of them bothered to correct anyone anymore, about their status as a couple. Dean didn't really seem to care, and it was superfluous to Sam, since they were_. _

Drew looked between the two of them, then nodded. "Right. So where you want it?"

Dean gestured to the spot they'd agreed on -- just above and a little to the right his heart. Sam couldn't remember why it seemed important to have them in roughly the same place, but it had. He closed his eyes against the visual of himself laying against Dean, head resting on Dean's chest so he could listen to his heart beat, steady and solid.

Not enough time left, never gonna be enough time.__

The drone of the needle buzzed inside Sam's head until he wasn't sure if he was hearing it, or feeling it; it shivered all through him, hot and electric until his blood felt like lava boiling through his veins and his dick hung heavy and full between his legs, throbbing in time with his pulse.

The heat in Dean's eyes scorched Sam; tendrils of fire licked over his skin everywhere Dean looked.

The droplets of blood that welled to the surface made Sam want to lean over and lick. He wanted to taste the heat, the pain; wanted to roll them around in his mouth and swallow them down.

Dean's eyes were all black pupil, just a thin ring of green around them. Sam watched him swallow and wanted to put his mouth to Dean's throat; wanted to feel the muscles working and taste the salt on his skin.

It felt like forever and no time at all before Drew bandaged Dean up and turned to Sam. "Same thing, same spot?"

Sam nodded and pulled his shirt off; smiled briefly at the whispered "Jesus!" from Drew. His smile grew when Dean narrowed his eyes and scowled in Drew's direction.

"Down, boy," he said, settling himself down into the chair. Dean turned his scowl toward Sam but subsided, sitting back on the chair Sam recently vacated.

"You keep staring at me all the time, I'm gonna start getting a complex." Dean's voice is rough and sleep-heavy, but it jerks Sam out of his memories, embarrassment and arousal surging through him in equal measure.

"I, uh." Sam gives a shrug, trying to play it off. "I was just thinking. Got caught up in it. Sorry."

"Good thinking?" Dean sits up, scrubbing his hand over his face and then through his hair.

"Yeah, I guess." He hesitates before taking a step forward. "Last night—"

Dean shuts him down before he gets any further. "Sam, no. We—shouldn't have done that. We shouldn't start that up again."

The words feel like acid falling on him, sharp and burning, and Sam flinches. "Why not? We're not hurting anyone. Not hurting each other."

Dean shakes his head. "You, _we_, got the chance to have that normal you always wanted. Us…that ain't normal, dude."

"I don't care." Sam stares at Dean. "You never cared before. So what changed? You just woke up and decided you didn't want—me—anymore?"

"I don't." Dean's voice is even, his gaze steady when he meets Sam's.

Sam crosses the space between their rooms, and is up in Dean's space before Dean can react, kissing him hard, pushing for entry. It takes only a moment before Dean opens to him, all wet heat and slick tongue, a soft whimper following him when Sam draws back, panting.

"You're a fucking liar," Sam says, his mouth still burning. They stare at one another for a long moment before Sam turns on his heel and heads for the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

~~~~~

They don't talk for the rest of the day. Dean shovels down some breakfast then slams out of the house and disappears into the garage, and Sam leaves him alone. He spends the day upstairs in his room, sorting through his clothes and the few possessions he's hauled around with him over the last five years.

Sam's sitting on the edge of his bed, paging through a notebook he found at the bottom of his duffle, trying to decide if there's anything worth keeping it for, or just to toss it in the trash, when he has a flash of a moment when he was Lucifer, or Lucifer was him _it was the same thing, wasn't it?_ Just a flash, and his head is full of bloody visions and hatred so strong it feels physical.

He _remembers_ that, remembers feeling it creep through him, icy-cold and hot all at the same time, burning him either way, consuming him. Lucifer didn't just want to wear him, he wanted to devour him.

The visions are gone as quickly as they came, leaving Sam sitting on his bed trembling, fingers white where he's clutching at the notebook in his hands. He throws the notebook against the wall, wishing he had something big and heavy that would leave a dent, a hole, some visual sign of his anger.

Dean's sitting at the kitchen table when Sam goes downstairs to get something to drink. He's obviously been in for a while, sitting there with two empty beer bottles in front of him, and Sam wonders why he didn't hear him.

"You're right," Dean says after a few minutes of silence, while Sam moves around the kitchen making some sandwiches.

"About?"

"Calling me a liar. It's not that I don't want—you. Us."

"So what is it, then?" Sam turns to look at Dean; watches him pick at the label on one of the bottles. "You can't really care if we're normal or whatever, can you?"

Dean shrugs. "I don't…want you to have any regrets. Things got so fucked up, Sammy. These last few years, I mean. It was, I don't know, it was something we both…needed, wanted, all we had was each other, right? But it doesn't have to be like that now. It's, we're not gonna be on the move all the time—"

"Dean." Sam waits until Dean finally looks up at him. "Do _you_ want someone else? Seriously. A girlfriend, boyfriend, whatever? Never mind if this is normal or good for us, or right, wrong, anything. Do you want someone else?"

He holds his breath waiting for Dean to answer, half afraid Dean will actually say yes, whether he truly believes it or not. But then he sees Dean shaking his head, lips forming the word 'no', though no sound is actually coming out.

"I don't, either, okay? It might've started as—whatever it started as, but it's so much more than that now. And you gotta believe me, you're all I want, all I'm ever _going_ to want."

Dean mumbles something Sam can't quite hear, though it sounds suspiciously like, "fucking emo shit, Jesus," but he doesn't care. Doesn't care about anything past the warmth spreading through him, and the knowledge that this isn't going to be them turning to each other because there are no other options, but rather them saying they don't _want_ other options.

~~~~~

Having therapy three times a week sometimes feels like too much, and sometimes it doesn't feel like it's enough. Sam always feels wrung out no matter what they talk about, and group often leaves him depressed and twitchy on top of angry.

"Why depressed?" Dr. Daniels asks him, when he mentions it.

"I'm not sure. It just feels like we're all in this room, spilling our guts and pretending to care about the others' problems, and it's depressing. I don't really care that Dave's having trouble staying sober, or that Annette's tried to kill herself, or whatever. I mean, I'm sorry they're having to deal with that stuff. I don't, it's not that I don't _care_, but Christ, the world just nearly fucking ended—" Sam sighs. "And I sound like a completely selfish, self-centered dick right now, don't I?"

Daniels smiles. "I wouldn't say that. And what's wrong with being selfish, or self-centered, sometimes? Do you always have to give something of yourself to everyone around you?"

"No, but that doesn't mean I have to be an ass, either."

"Do you think you're being an ass? Have you told either of them, or anyone else, that you don't care?"

"Of course not." Sam's horrified to even think Daniels might think he'd done that.

"So, thinking something that you keep to yourself, that makes you a selfish person?"

Sam scowls at Dr. Daniels. "How long does it take for shrinks to learn the art of twisting words around?" Daniels just smiles calmly at him, damn him. "No, okay? I don't want anything bad happening to them, and I'm sorry when it does, but not caring about a stranger's problems doesn't make me a bad person."

"But it still makes you angry."

"Everything makes me angry, to some degree." Sam shrugs. "Dean eating bran cereal for breakfast annoys me some days, because even though I'm glad he's taking better care of himself, it's like he's turned into this whole different person I don't know, and the changes make me mad at the same time I'm glad he's doing them." He throws his hands up. "See? I'm just contradicting myself all over the place."

"Human beings are a mass of contradictions, Sam."

"I hate it."

"I know you do."

"Am I ever going to be _free_ of this stuff? I mean, I have all this crap inside me, good memories, things that make me feel safe…but at the same time I feel like there's this huge black pit there, waiting to swallow everything up."

Daniels shakes his head, and makes a note in Sam's chart. "I hope we can get you free of it someday, but sometimes it doesn't go away, you just learn to live with it and ignore it and lead your life around it." He makes another note. "How are you and Dean getting along? I know you said there was some tension there."

Tension. Sam snorts. The one thing he hasn't been able to share with Dr. Daniels is his less-than-brotherly relationship with Dean. Somehow, triggering and then stopping the Apocalypse seems easy to talk about in comparison to being in love with his brother.

"There are days I want to hug him, and days I want to kill him," he says finally – and that's true enough. "He's taking guitar lessons now, and I'm really happy he's found something to do that makes _him_ happy, but he has the attention span of a gnat on the best of days, and sometimes he'll play the same couple of chords over and over again until I want to throttle him or throw the guitar away."

"Have you talked about Bobby yet?"

"No." Sam looks down at his hands, then back up at Dr. Daniels. "I know he won't bring it up; he's waiting for me to. And I want to know, I'm pretty sure I already know, because if Bobby was alive we'd have talked to him, or Dean would talk about him, whatever. But as long as I don't ask Dean won't tell me, and then I don't have to know for sure. Won't know for sure."

"Putting it off isn't going to help you in the long run, Sam."

"I know." Sam swallows roughly and twists to look at the clock on the wall. Ten more minutes, thank God. Or whoever. "But you understand…he died because of me. They all died because of me."

It's not the first time he's said it out loud; Dr. Daniels has made him do it several times. It doesn't hurt any less, no matter how many times it's been.

"But didn't you tell me more would've died – possibly everyone – if you, and Bobby and the others, hadn't done what you did?"

"Doesn't make it any better, Doc."

"They must have thought the possible sacrifice was worth it, though, or they wouldn't have been there with you."

"I guess." Sam shifts uncomfortably thinking of all the people who'd died because of him and Dean, and their destiny. Mom, Dad, Jess. Jo, Ellen, Brady, Castiel, Bobby, Pastor Jim, Caleb. Andy, Ava, Jake, Lily, and all the other psychic kids who'd been twisted and tormented. All the people who died from the Croatoan virus. The body count really stacked up when Sam thought about how some of it could've been avoided – or not, depending on if you bought into the destiny thing – if he hadn't trusted Ruby or if Dean had killed him (or not brought him back), or if they'd _talked_ to one another instead of going off in different directions.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, sorry. Just thinking."

"Regretting?" Daniels cocks his head like he can see inside Sam's, and damn, that's an uncomfortable thought.

"No—yes. Kind of? I don't know. I know I've said it before, it's the whole _destiny_ crap that really pisses me off. All the rest of it, if it was random chance that kept stuff happening…but supposedly, assuming the angels can be trusted on this, it was meant to play out the way it did from the get-go, and I just can't let go of that. I can't reconcile that with the loving God who created everything. I think about it and I wonder why us, what was the point – of anything – and that's usually when I realize my head is pounding and my chest hurts."

Dr. Daniels nods. "I want you to start keeping a journal, Sam. Write all of that down, get it out of your head. It might surprise you how much of a difference it makes to see it, rather than having it just spin around without anywhere to go."

"Are you going to read it?"

"Not unless you want me to. This is just for you, for your benefit. Use it to record when you're upset, what you've been thinking or doing. What memories trigger panic or anxiety, or the nightmares you have. If you write it down, rather than trying to just remember it, you might start to see patterns we can work with."

"Okay." Sam makes a mental note to stop at the drugstore and get a notebook, then looks at the clock. Dr. Daniels is already closing his file. "Guess I'll see you in a few days, huh?"

Dr. Daniels holds out his hand and Sam shakes it, trying not to show how glad he is that this hour is over. "That you will. Have a good day, Sam."

"Thanks, Doc. You too."

~~~~~

He's inside his head, inside his body, and Lucifer's there with him. Laughing at him. Mocking him. _You all think you're so wonderful, so special, so beloved. You're nothing but twisted, murderous, savage monkeys. You lie and you cheat, you steal and you whore, and then you go to church and beg forgiveness so you can do it again. You don't want forgiveness, you want forgetfulness. And you are what my father cast me out for? You're what replaced me and my brothers and sisters as the favored ones in his eyes?_

Lucifer shows him his parents sobbing over an empty crib, a baby lost long before it was to be born. _There was another one before you, but there couldn't be more than you and Dean, so it was gone without another thought. Just like *that*._ Lucifer snaps his fingers, makes a sound like tiny bones breaking, snapping, twisting, and Sam howls with rage. _Good, Sam. Good. That rage is beautiful, wonderful, it warms me through, welcomes me. You know what I am, Sam? I am rage. I am that blackness inside you, that empty spot you've been looking forever to fill. You tried with school, you tried with Jessica. You tried with your own brother, lying with him as a man lies with a woman. Nothing fills that empty place, does it? The only thing that ever filled you up, made you complete, was me._

Lucifer's laughing as Sam screams, shouts "No!" over and over again.

Sam wakes to the sound of wood splintering and cloth tearing, and the light coming on burns his eyes, makes tears spring up and slide down his face. All he can see is Lucifer's blackness around him; all he can hear is Lucifer's laughing, mocking voice, words slicing into him until he's bleeding ribbons of evil, oozing darkness that swallows him up again.

"Sam!" He hears his name, but can't connect it to anything that makes sense in his head. Over and over, just his name, _Sam, Sammy, Sammy, Sam_ like a litany. Or a prayer. Breathless and warm, full of life and love, nothing mocking or taunting. Just pure emotion, warm and caressing. "C'mon, Sam, c'mon," and there it is again, washing over him, soothing him.

The rage lifts, slides away from him slowly, and his vision clears from black and red to normal. He's on the floor, back against the bed, the nightstand in pieces around him. His hand aches, throbbing hotly in time with his heart. And on his knees in front of Sam is Dean, eyes wide and not a little scared, so pale his freckles stand out like drops of blood—no, it is blood.

"Did I hurt you?" Sam asks hoarsely, chest aching with fear, because this has been his worry all along, that he would hurt someone. That he would hurt Dean.

Dean shakes his head. "Hurt yourself," he says thickly, and nods toward Sam's throbbing hand. He turns it over to see cuts all along the side and over the palm, some still oozing blood. "Think you broke one of your fingers," he adds, and Sam sees then yeah, his ring finger is sitting at an odd angle. "Jesus, Sam. You scared the ever-lovin' shit out of me."

"Sorry," Sam manages. He feels dizzy, and completely out of it. "Dean, I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"Shh. It's okay, it's okay. Let's get you cleaned up and—do you want to go to the ER? Or I can splint it, and we can go tomorrow."

"You do it. I don't need a doctor." It doesn't even hurt, yet. He can feel the throbbing, but it seems distant, almost like he's removed from it. It's gonna hurt like a bitch when the endorphins wear off, though.

"You'll need a doctor's note to get off work."

"Don't need to get off work. It's fine." He's crying now, tears hot and wet against his cheeks, and Dean leans in close and holds him while Sam cries. Lucifer is fucking _gone_, why does he still have all this shit in his head? Why can't he forget it, let it go, move past it? "I'm sorry," he tells Dean again, over and over.

Dean just holds him, letting him sob it out, then tucks Sam back into bed with him when he's done, wrung out, worn out, numb from everything.

~~~~~

His finger is broken in two places.

Sam sulks all the way to the Urgent Care center, because dammit, it's not like he and Dean aren't totally competent in emergency medicine. But it turns out he _can't_ work with his finger splinted like it is, so he needs the doctor to write him off work. That's the downside to going legit and normal – having to deal with all the bullshit like doctor's notes and bosses and crap like that.

Dean drops him off at home and heads for the worksite, Sam's work excuse folded into his wallet. Sam's left with a television with no cable, an internet connection that only works intermittently, and enough Lortab to keep him loopy for a couple of days. Because oh, yeah. Once the endorphins wore off last night, the thing hurt like a mother.

He crashes on the couch after taking another pain pill, with a movie running in the background because otherwise it's too quiet in the house. His brain won't shut off, though, so by the time Dean gets home Sam's high on pain meds and out of his mind with fear and anger.

"What if we didn't actually get rid of him?" Is the first thing he says when he sees Dean. "I swear it feels like he's here in my head all the time, like I can't get rid of him."

"He's gone, Sammy." Dean looks tired, worn out from the episode last night, and a trip to the doctor today, and then working on top of it. "We locked him back into his prison, and he's not getting out. He's gone, okay?"

"But I feel him, I swear I do."

Dean shakes his head. "You're just—he was inside you, that whole possession thing. That's what you're feeling. I still—"

"You still what?"

"I still feel Michael's presence sometimes. I know he's not inside me, but sometimes I feel like I'm not alone in my head. It's a weird feeling."

"Fucking _hate_ it," Sam mutters, struggling to get up off the couch. Dean tugs him back down and holds him there. "Lemme go, I need to go, need to get up."

"No, you really don't. You're stoned, or something, you need to stay put. You eat anything today?"

Sam shakes his head. "Don't think so."

"Okay, first order of business, then. I'mma order Chinese food for us, 'cos I'm not in mood to cook, and you don't need to be anywhere near things that could cut you or burn you."

"Not gonna hurt myself." Sam scowls. "'M not a baby."

"No, you're not a baby. But you _are_ stoned outta your gourd, dude. You'd probably chop your finger off, or burn the house down, and I like it here. I don't wanna move."

"I'm really sorry 'bout last night, Dean." Sam lets Dean shift him around until he's stretched out on the couch again, sighing when Dean draws a blanket up over him.

"I know you are, Sammy. S'okay." He kisses Sam on the forehead, then brushes a kiss across his mouth before moving away. "I'm gonna order dinner now. You sleep a while, okay?"

"Mmm." He is sleepy, anxiety draining away again. "Dean?"

"What?"

Later, he knows he only asked because of the whole stoned-on-painkillers thing. If he'd been in control of himself… But he can't stop the words now. "Where's Bobby?"

It's dead quiet from behind him, and Sam starts to move, needs to look to see if Dean's still there, if he heard him, if he's going to answer him. Dean's voice stops him, though, low and heavy with resignation.

"I'll—we'll talk about it later, okay? When you're not so loopy."

"Promise?"

"Yeah, Sammy. I promise."

~~~~~

Eating helps a lot. By the time he's finished his veggie lo mein and hot and sour soup, Sam feels a whole lot better than he felt earlier. He's lucid and calm, and even if his finger hurts, it's nothing compared to some wounds he's had, so he stashes the Lortab in the bathroom cupboard and switches to Tylenol. Dean steals bites of his lo mein, but Sam sneaks a couple bites of his sweet and sour chicken, so it all works out.

They've got a movie in – the same one Sam had on earlier, that he knows he didn't watch. One of the classics that never fails to make both of them snicker and snort, National Lampoon's Animal House.

The guys on-screen are chanting "To-GA, to-GA" when Sam hits the pause button.

"Hey, I was watching that," Dean says. He pokes at Sam's thigh. "What's up?"

Sam takes a deep breath. He really doesn't want to do this, but he really _needs_ to. "You promised to tell me what happened to Bobby."

He hears Dean whisper, "fuck", under his breath. "Yeah. You sure?"

Sam nods. "I need to know."

"I think you already know."

"Yeah. But. I need to hear it." Doesn't want to, but needs to. He needs the closure.

Dean looks at him, the words plain to see even before he opens his mouth. "He's dead, Sammy. Him and Cas both."

"I knew Castiel was." Unfortunately, that image probably isn't ever going away. Sam swallows down the pain and sadness and anger, and looks at Dean. "Was it—was it me?"

"Son-of-a—no. Sam, none of it was _you_, okay? Lucifer, wearing your face, but not you. I know that, Cas and Bobby knew that. Adam knew it."

Adam. Oh, God, he'd forgotten about their brother. Another body to add to the ever-growing count. "What—happened? To Bobby?"

"I don't know exactly how he died, Sam—"

"No, I mean, afterward. Did you bury him?"

Dean shakes his head. "I cremated him, and Chuck took the ashes back up to South Dakota, to put them beside Bobby's wife. He took Adam's, too. I know they barely knew each other, but figured it's close enough to family."

"Was there—what about Cas? Or, Jimmy, I guess?"

Another shake. "There wasn't anything left."

"Oh." Sam swallows over and over to push down the rising nausea, then breathes in and out through his nose, slow and deep, until the nausea passes. "I. God."

"It's why I didn't say anything." Dean puts an arm around Sam and pets his hair, fingers sifting gently through the long strands. "I didn't, I knew you probably knew, but it didn't seem like you needed details, and you were having so many problems dealing with what you did know—"

"Chuck's okay, though?"

"As far as I know, Chuck's just fine." Dean grimaces. "I made sure he wasn't anywhere near where stuff was going to happen, and why you didn't know anything about him or where he was gonna be. Didn't want to give Lucifer any more of an edge than he was going to have."

Sam nods. He barely remembers anything before Lucifer took him, anyway. Or rather, he remembers things, obviously his memories are (mostly) intact. But the events right before he said yes, and for a period afterward, those are hazy. Or non-existent.

"For the record? I still think it was a stupid idea," Dean tells him, tugging gently on a handful of hair.

"Which part?" Sam leans his head against Dean's and closes his eyes. The whole plan, if that word even really applied, had been crazy. Crazy to a degree they'd never experienced before.

"All of it. But especially the part where you led the Devil to the edge so we could push him in."

"Had to," Sam mumbles, closing his eyes. "Wasn't gonna work any other way." He feels Dean nod against him. "Hey, what about Crowley?"

"No idea. Bastard shazamed out of there as soon as it was obvious Lucifer was present. He's slick enough I imagine he slipped away and has started rebuilding his empire. Or whatever he called it. But I don't know for sure what happened to him, and I don't really care."

"Bobby got his soul back, right?"

"Yeah, he did. No worries there." Dean presses a kiss to Sam's forehead. "Why don't you take a nap, Sammy? I'm gonna finish watching the movie, and then we can go to bed."

Sam smiles, eyes already closing. "Sounds good."

~~~~~

Construction work isn't really working for Sam. It's not that he can't do it – he's pretty handy in general, can hammer and paint and whatever with the best of them. He likes that it wears his body out, but it doesn't do anything for his mind, which leaves him in the really awkward position of being dead tired physically, with his mind still racing, thinking over things, regretting choices and decisions he's made and done.

"I think I'm gonna look for another job," he tells Dean one morning over breakfast.

"Man's work too much for you, Samantha?" Dean's lucky he's holding his coffee cup, or Sam might have smacked him upside the head for that.

"No, dickhead. But it's not doing—I need something that's gonna make my brain too tired to think."

"You're still having nightmares." Dean says it as a statement, not a question, and Sam just nods. "About Lucifer?"

"Sometimes." At Dean's skeptical look he amends it to, "Okay, most of the time. But not always. And it's not just Lucifer, it's just all the stuff. From way back on forward, y'know? I still dream about Jess on the ceiling sometimes, and wonder if I'd done something different – stayed then, or if we'd come back early. I wonder if Dad hadn't decided to drop out of sight without a word if that would've affected anything. So yeah, it's all kinds of shit. And therapy keeps it all stirred up, so I feel like it's always front and present." Sam drops into his chair and pokes at his toast. "So, I just need to get me something that's going to make me think more and not leave me so much time to think about all the shit I'd just as soon not think about anyway."

"Ooookay." Dean slurps his milk when he eats cereal, and it's another one of those things Sam wants to thump him for. "Got any ideas?"

"I was thinking of checking out the used bookstore down on Coventry. It's had a help wanted sign in the window for a couple of weeks now."

"You're like the stereotype of a geek, you know that? Ow!" Dean jerks his legs back when Sam kicks him in the ankle. "See if I play footsie with you anymore."

"You weren't playing footsie, you were tapping your foot against mine. Annoyingly," Sam adds, when Dean smirks.

"Whatever, bitch. You know you love me."

"Hmph." But Sam doesn't deny it, and he lets Dean get away with stealing the last piece of toast off his plate.

"So you gonna come into work with me, turn your notice in?" Dean has a bit of raspberry jam on his thumb, and before he can lift it to his mouth to suck it off, Sam's doing it for him, tongue swirling teasingly around the tip before releasing Dean's hand back to him. "Jesus, Sam."

Sam grins. "Give you something to look forward to, for after work. And yeah, I'm gonna go in with you. It'd be rude to just not show up."

"Yeah, your crew leader probably wouldn't like it much."

"You're my crew leader, jerk."

Dean leans across the table and kisses Sam quick and dirty, then gets up from the table, collecting his dishes. "And I wouldn't like it if you just didn't show up." He pauses at the sink and half turns back toward Sam. "You thought about going back to school? You're what, like one semester short of graduating?"

"Something like that." Sam frowns at Dean. "What brought that up?"

"I don't know." He shrugs. "I've just been thinking about it. About stuff. You know, all the crap that gets stirred up in therapy." He flashes a grin at Sam. "You always wanted a safe, normal life. We got that now, more-or-less; you could finish school, be a lawyer or whatever."

"I don't know about lawyer, now." Sam gathers his own dishes up to take to the sink. They need to get going so they're not late to the worksite. "That seems like so long ago."

"But something. You could do anything, Sammy."

"I'll think about it." Sam sets his dishes next to Dean's and steps in close for a kiss. It's slow and sweet, Dean tasting strongly of coffee and raspberry jam. Sam cups Dean's face and kisses him until he doesn't taste anything but _Dean_ and his lips tingle. "Gonna be late for work if we don't hurry."

Dean snorts at him. "Kisses like that don't make me inclined to wanna be on time." But he's gathering up his jacket and hardhat as he talks, and Sam follows suit.

~~~~~

The bookstore smells like old paper, and dust. It reminds Sam a lot of Bobby's library, and he's hit with a pang of loss and sadness that makes him tremble. He shoves it down and heads over to the counter where an young woman sits, eyes trained on the book she's reading.

"Excuse me, miss?"

She looks up then, and smiles at him. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Sam Winchester. I have an appointment with Mona Richards?"

"Oh! You're here to interview." She gives him an up-and-down that makes him want to squirm, then hollers over her shoulder, "Mona, your two o'clock is here."

"Be right there, Theresa."

The girl – Theresa – giggles. "She'll be a few minutes; you can go ahead and look around, and she'll come find you."

"Thanks." Sam gives her a smile, and she giggles again, making him feel absolutely ancient. He never thought he'd feel so old at twenty-seven.

The book store is an interesting mix of new and used – mostly used, but there does seem to be some new stock out in the front. There's a whole section of used textbooks, which makes sense because there's a community college not far from here, and there's also a really good sized section of reference and research-type books. Sam's poking at the reference books, wondering if the owner would be interested in any of the stuff he has, when someone taps on his shoulder. "Sam? I'm Mona."

He turns and she gives him a brilliant smile which he returns, along with holding his hand out. Jess used to complain about how many men didn't seem to want to shake hands because of her gender. "Sam Winchester."

"Come on back to the office. You drink coffee, Sam?"

"I do," he says, following behind her. She's absolutely _tiny_, five feet nothing, if she's anything, with silver-gilt hair, and the bluest eyes he's ever seen. Her face is smooth, but for laugh lines, and Sam knows he's never going to guess her age. It could be anywhere between thirty and seventy, though he'd bet it's closer toward the seventy end than the thirty.

"How do you take it?" She asks, ushering him into a small, cluttered office and pointing at the one empty chair beside the desk.

"Um, black with two sugars, please." She hands off a mug and smiles when he takes a drink, eyes widening with pleasure. "Wow. That's awesome coffee, thanks."

"Thank you." Another smile. "My husband imports it – we have a coffee shop on the other side of town, so I help myself for my own personal stock."

He laughs. "That's convenient."

"Isn't it?" Mona sits down behind the desk and steeples her fingers together. "So, I understand you're interested in a job as a clerk?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Stop that." She waves at him, about as threatening as a Shih Tzu. "'Ma'am' makes me feel old. It's just Mona."

"Okay, Mona." He takes another drink of the coffee. "Yes, I'd like a job as a clerk."

"Why?" She cocks her head, looking intently at him.

"Well." Sam chews on his bottom lip for a minute and remembers why he hates interviewing for jobs. Not that he's had a lot of them, but still. "I like books. A lot. I read all the time. Love research. My—Dean, he teases me a lot about it, but he's always supported me. I wouldn't mind being surrounded by books all the time. Makes me feel safe." Now why the hell did he add that? Sam mentally closes his eyes and kisses the job goodbye.

"Makes you feel safe, hmm?" Mona's studying him, and Sam gets the feeling not much escapes her. "An interesting thing to say about books—but you know, I know what you mean. Have you ever worked in a bookstore before?"

"Yes, ma—I mean, Mona. I worked at the bookstore at school."

"College? Where'd you attend?" She asks when he nods.

"Stanford." It still hurts to say it, and probably always will, a little. Her eyes widen, and then she nods.

"I see. Well. I'll tell you, Sam, I'm not looking for a clerk." He sighs. Figures. "I'm actually looking for someone to take over this place. Start out as manager, and then become owner. I want to sell it, but I don't want to sell it to just anyone, you understand. Books – especially old books, and rare books, need to be handled by someone who understands them. Someone who loves them and respects them. And I think you do, don't you?"

"I do, yes." Manager? Owner? Does he want to own this store? Even eventually? Sam swallows. "You're serious about selling it?"

"I am. Are you serious about being interested?"

Sam takes a deep breath and nods. "I am."

"Well, then. Congratulations, you have the job." Mona smiles at him. "Let's get you introduced to the other staff, and then we'll get you started on your paperwork."

Sam officially meets Theresa (part-time clerk) and Marty (full-time clerk), and Janet, who does the books for the bookstore and Mona's husband's coffee shop. He gets a tour of the store, and the stockroom in the back, which is where his office will be, then spends an hour in Mona's office (it's going to be _his_ office one day in the not-too-distant future) doing all the new-hire paperwork that always seems to be required. Inside he feels like jumping up and down like a little kid, and he can't wait to get home and tell Dean that not only did he get a job, but they're buying a bookstore.

On to Part Four

~~~~~

The door to the bookstore is framed or hung unevenly – Sam can't tell for sure which it is, because the whole building seems to list slightly sideways – so every time the wind blows it shakes the door, and makes the bell over the door jingle.

Sam's ready to rip the damn thing down.

"It's really windy out there today, isn't it?" Theresa wanders out of the office/stockroom in the back to lean on the front counter, and Sam only barely stops himself from saying something really mean and sarcastic. It's not Theresa's fault that Sam's mad at the bell. He contents himself with a grunt and goes back to his notebook. Dr. Daniels' suggestion of keeping a journal has turned out to be a good one, and Sam's trying to get down the nightmare he had last night while it's still fairly fresh in his mind.

"Think it'll snow?"

Theresa's voice pulls him back out of his thoughts and into the here-and-now, and Sam lifts his head to look out the window. It looks wintery out there, heavy, dark clouds hanging loud and ominous. It's mid-November, and they haven't had any snow yet. The locals tell them it's hard to predict weather patterns anymore, what with global warming and all the other crap that's gone down in the last year or so, but say it should start snowing pretty soon.

"Maybe." Sam turns back to Theresa. "Done with inventory?"

"Yeah. There wasn't much new stuff in this week. Probably be a lot more in a couple weeks, when the semester ends." She edges a little closer, leaning over the counter to show off her cleavage, nicely highlighted by the low-cut, v-necked sweater she's wearing.

"Probably." Sam takes one step back and plants himself back on the high stool, well out of the flirt zone.

It didn't take Theresa very long to start flirting with Sam; probably within the first couple days after he was hired. So far she's been mostly subtle about it, just standing close, leaning over, stuff like that. It's mostly amusing , but has the potential to become problematic. Sam's not sure, but he'd be surprised if Theresa's out of high school yet. So even if he was interested, which he's not, she's jailbait—and he's not biting.

"You can take off early if you want," he says, watching her watch him.

She beams at him. "Awesome! Hey, um." She bites down on her lip and Sam thinks, uh-oh, here it comes. Sure enough, the next thing out of her mouth is, "You want to go out, get a coffee or something sometime?"

Sam sighs and tries to decide how it's better to turn her down. Age, or involved with someone? He doesn't think she'd be deterred by the age thing, so he goes for the big guns. "Thanks, but I can't. I'm, I've got a boyfriend." _Sort of_.

Her eyes widen until he's afraid they're going to pop out of her head, and then she breathes, "Oh, wow. Really?"

Sam nods. "We just keep it pretty quiet. You've met him—Dean, comes in here on Saturdays when he picks me up?"

She still looks a little pop-eyed. "Wow. I didn't—wow. That's. Wow." Then she realizes what he's told her, and she blushes crimson. "Oh, god, I'm sorry. I've been, I mean, I didn't—Sorry, Sam." She's gone in a flurry of wind and more door jingles, pushing past Marty as he's coming in. He turns to look back at her, then at Sam with a bemused look on his face.

"Finally broke down and told her about Dean, huh?"

Sam scowls at him. "I really hate you."

Marty shrugs his coat off and tosses it toward the coat rack in the corner. "Sure you do. And hey, it's not _my_ fault I saw you guys attached at the lips. I'm kinda surprised I'm the only one who's seen it, the way you guys look at each other."

Sam groans, because Marty's right, damn him. It was totally his fault, kissing Dean in the office where anyone could walk in on them. "God, just stop already."

"You just hate that I'm right." Marty leans up against the counter and pokes at the pile of invoices Sam's been working his way through. "Did paychecks come in yet?"

"Nope, not yet." Sam eyes Marty over his notebook. "You know they don't come in until Thursday afternoon. That's tomorrow, genius."

Marty groans. "Damn. I must've looked at the wrong date. Oh, hell, that means we're gonna get paid late, next week."

"It does? We are? Why?"

"Uh, 'cos of Thanksgiving?" Marty shakes his head when Sam just blinks at him. "Dude, don't you ever look at the calendar? Thanksgiving is next week. It's almost the end of November."

Great. Another holiday. They'd managed to ignore Halloween this year, shutting themselves inside with all the lights off, just the TV flickering as they watched the original _Halloween_ and _Friday the 13th_ movies before going to bed and blowing each other's minds with crazy-awesome blowjobs. Well, Thanksgiving could be the start of a new tradition: having an actual decent dinner, cooked at home, by them.

And maybe Mrs. Murchison next door would bake an extra pumpkin pie.

"Man, where's the year going," Marty's saying, when Sam tunes back in. "I swear, it's almost Christmas."

Christmas. That's worse than Thanksgiving. Sam stifles a groan and reaches to shove his notebook back into his backpack. He's saved from having to actually say anything by the door opening, Dean smiling as he comes in, whistling a jaunty tune.

~~~~~

Sam's reached the point where he can honestly say he hates therapy. Hates wading through all the crap that encompasses his life, because it feels like being stuck in quicksand, heavy and clinging, pulling him back down. It's dark history and he wants to be done with it; wants to find the sunshine and step out of the shadows.

"I want you to spend the rest of the week, and the weekend, working on focusing on good memories," Dr. Daniels tells him at the end of his appointment. "Nothing dark or sad, or anything that makes you angry. Just the ones that make you feel safe, comforted, happy. Okay?"

"Easier said than done," Sam mutters, but he nods. "Should I write 'em down?"

"Absolutely. I think the journaling's done a lot of good for you."

"Yeah. It's weird," Sam says, waiting while Dr. Daniels fills out the prescription for his refills. "I didn't think it was doing any good, but sometimes I feel—lighter, almost. It's hard to explain."

"I've had people tell me that before," Daniels says, handing over the prescriptions. "I think after the new year we'll work on getting rid of some of the baggage. Writing letters and burning them, that sort of thing. It gives closure you might not get otherwise, particularly if it's someone you can't actually talk to anymore."

Closure would be nice, but Sam's not going to hold his breath. At this point he'd be happy just to have the nightmares taper off; anything else would be icing.

That evening is Dean's guitar lesson, so Sam figures that's a good time to try the focusing on positive memories thing. He settles on their bed in a lotus position, window cracked open to allow a small stream of cool air, one lamp on low. No music or television because Sam doesn't mind the quiet. It works for him in a way it doesn't work for Dean.

He's not meditating, exactly, but it feels a little like it anyway, like the times Jess had him sit with her while she did her yoga exercises. Meditation, focusing, whatever – it's about remembering the good things that sometimes seem so overshadowed by the bad they're hard to recognize.

If pressed, Sam will say his earliest comfort memory is the scent of the aftershave Dad wore. He can't remember what brand it was, but even now, years later, smelling that scent makes him feel safe and loved. The clearest one after that is Dean making him laugh by doing bouncy rabbit ears with the shadows from a flashlight, which also makes him feel safe and loved.

The next one is target practice, sitting beside and just behind Dad and Dean, legs crossed under him, an empty pistol in his hands. Dad crouches behind Dean, helping him hold the gun, moving limbs into place for maximum stability. The gun is loud when it's fired, and there's a weird stink in the air, and underneath all of it is the soft murmur of Dad's voice explaining to Dean the best way to hold pistols, and how rifles need to be held differently. Sam listens to all of it, eyes closing sometimes when the sun shines too warm on his face making him sleepy. Dean sounds just like Dad, so serious when he says yes, Sir, in answer to something or other Dad says to him.

Dad lets him hold the pistol after Dean's fired it, while Dean watches, smiling at Sam encouragingly. The metal is warm and smooth against his fingertips and Sam kind of can't wait for his hands to be big enough to hold it steady, to fire it the way Dean did.

He's not sure what comes after that, or even before it, because there are so many. Lots of images flutter past him, some pausing, flickering behind his eyelids like photos he wants to keep but that fade with the passage of time anyway.

Dean teaching him how to swim one summer, when Dad was gone most all day long doing research or hunting.

Curled up against his brother in a chair big enough for both of them with room left over, and learning how to read, following Dean's finger as it pointed out the words in _The Cat in the Hat_. Even years later, Sam still isn't sure who was more proud when he made it to the end of the book, Dean, or himself.

A day spent at the park, all three of them, both he and Dean shrieking and laughing and calling out, _"More, daddy, more!"_ as he pushed the swings higher and higher. Sam remembers giggling, laughing so hard everything's blurry around him. Or maybe it's blurry because he and Dean were on the merry-go-round, spinning fast and wild, Dad pushing it and laughing at them clutching at each other, their laughter blending with Dad's.

It was a good day, that one. Sam's not sure how old he was; four, maybe? It's an old memory, that's for sure. But he remembers the sun on his face, the taste of summer on his tongue when he took a deep breath. That whole day was bright and full of laughter, something they didn't get much of, all together. For one clear, shining moment, everything was normal: they were normal kids, their dad wasn't talking about demons or death, and Sam got to just play with his brother.

His first date with Jessica, coffee at the little shop just down the street from campus. Sam thinks he fell in love with her that day, sitting there in the sunshine while they talked and laughed.

Helping Jess teach her cousin how to ride his bike. Kenny was eight, and reminded Sam so much of himself at that age. He remembers the proud smile on Kenny's face when he made it all the way down the block and back without falling over at all.

Time spent at Bobby's, or with Pastor Jim. Sam misses both of them, but Bobby most of all. Jim's been gone a while now, so the ache has faded some. Bobby is still new, still raw, and Sam shies away from that because these are supposed to be memories that focus on safe and comfortable.

He thinks about Dean then, because no matter how infuriating and annoying his brother can be, he's also the one thing that's always made Sam feel safe and comfortable; made him feel comforted, even when things were happening around them that were completely out of control, Dean was safety.

At not-quite-seven, Sam's afraid of the dark, afraid of the shadows that seem to gather just beyond the gleam of the nightlight. He can hear them laugh in high-pitched giggles, can see the shine and flash of their teeth when the light falls just right.

He takes his bear -- raggedy old thing with one ear sewn up funny and one arm shorter than the other where Dean had to do an emergency patch when it ripped open after pulling on it too hard, teasing Sam about something or other -- and dashes for the door. If he can get to Dean's room, he'll be safe, because even if Dean teases him and picks on him sometimes, he's still Sammy's big brother. He can do anything. He can keep Sam safe, keep the dark away. He's the reason Sam never feels alone.

It's quiet in the apartment, shadows slinking everywhere, slipping just beyond reach, just beyond where he can see them, and he runs, feet slapping on the fake-wood flooring, those last few steps to Dean's room and then into the room. Dean's already sitting up, squinting as Sam draws closer.

"Bad dreams?"

"Shadows," Sam says quietly. "An' they got teeth."

Dean nods and shifts over, patting the spot beside him. "C'mon up, Sammy."

He doesn't say a word about the bear, just waits while Sam shuffles and shifts, getting comfortable before drawing the covers up over both of them. When Sam tucks his hand beneath the pillow he feels the prick of the blade there and wonders if that's why Dean's not scared of the dark. He pulls his fingers back and sucks on the one he pricked, then closes his eyes. Now it's safe to sleep.

Sam wishes he still had that bear. He can't remember what happened to it, but figures it probably got left behind at some pay-by-the-week motel, forgotten in the rush of packing up to hurry to the next job.

He's debating whether to get up and try to type out some of these memories or just stay here on the bed, feeling warm and relaxed, when he hears the Impala's distinctive growl as Dean pulls into the driveway. He stays where he's at, breathing slow and deep until he hears the door open, Dean calling out to him.

"Sam?"

"Up here." He stretches, muscles gone a little stiff from sitting for a while, and smiles when Dean steps into the doorway. "Have a good lesson?"

"Yep. How 'bout you? Have a good—whatever?"

Sam snorts. "Not bad. Productive, anyway."

"That's good, right?"

"Probably, yeah." It's kind of a surprise, if he's honest, how many untainted good memories he has – because he knows he didn't call them all up in this one sitting. That makes Sam feel better all by itself. "Wanna go get a burger? I'm kind of hungry."

"'S what happens when you don't eat enough at dinner." Dean nods sagely. "Get your ass in gear, Sam, and I'll even spring for French fries."

"I don't know how I could resist an offer like that," Sam says drily, but he's already moving, and even lets Dean smack him on the butt as he walks past.

~~~~~~

They're both wet and shivering from an impromptu snowball fight, and Sam's covered in pine needles and resin. Who knew chopping down a Christmas tree could be so messy?

"I'll get the shower started," Dean tells him once they've settled the tree in the corner, in the little stand. "You make sure everything's locked up."

"I'm the one covered in pine stuff," Sam says, sneezing once.

"So strip down here, and then it won't be a problem."

Actually, if he doesn't get warm soon, Sam thinks, the tickles in his nose are the least of his worries. Much colder and he's going to pull something, shivering.

He checks both doors are locked and all the lights are off, then heads upstairs, following the trail of damp clothes Dean left all the way to the bathroom. Sam strips his own stuff off and tosses it toward the corner, in the general direction of the hamper, then opens the door to the bathroom, already wonderfully warm and steamy.

"Shove over," is all he says to Dean, opening the shower door. It's proof of how things have changed for them: having a place of their own to come home to, with a shower that's big enough for both of them.

Dean shoves with a grunt, stepping back under the spray to rinse the soap and shampoo off. Sam watches the water and suds sluice down Dean, patterns and ripples that make him back Dean into the wall and kiss him, pine resin be damned.

"Turn around," he says thickly, when they have to breathe or pass out. Dean nips one more kiss to his jaw but turns, eyes flashing with heat.

"Can't even let a guy shower in peace, huh?" But he stretches himself out and up against the shower wall, angling so his ass pushes out. Sam kneels behind him, running his hands over the sleek, slick curves, feeling the strength in Dean as his muscles shift and flex when he spreads his legs.

"Do you really want me to?" Sam knows the answer to that; he doesn't need to hear Dean actually say it.

Dean wriggles and shifts, and the water turns to a heavy mist, hot and steamy like the deep south in summertime. Sam breathes in the scent of body wash and shampoo; licks at the curve of Dean's ass to taste them, and the sharper taste of Dean beneath.

Dean makes a quiet noise and spreads his legs even further. Sam smiles against him and spreads Dean's ass, watching the water trickle down, droplets gleaming, teasing, beckoning until he has to lean in and lap them up. Has to trace his tongue over Dean's hole, pressing lightly at the small opening, just to feel the resistance. He nips at one asscheek, bites a little further in, and spreads Dean further so he can score the tender area with his teeth. Dean growls and moves, shivers rippling through him.

"Sam—"

"So impatient," Sam murmurs, drawing back. "Always want it, don't you."

"I hate you." Dean shivers again, goosebumps rising over his skin when Sam just hovers, breathing out. "Sammy, please—"

Sam presses forward, tongue pushing against the muscle, sliding inside when it gives. Dean groans; Sam hears it distantly, feels it vibrate through Dean and into him. He licks at the small hole, bites at it again, then sets to driving Dean out of his mind, tongue fucking in and out slowly, then faster, until Dean's moans and cries are one long, continuous sound.

He fucks Dean right there, braced against the shower wall, slick with the soap and water sluicing over them. Every stroke inward makes Dean whine, a low, needy sound forced out between his teeth. Sam groans when Dean tightens around him as he comes, his body milking Sam's, pulling his orgasm from him in hot, wet pulses.

They stay in the shower kissing and touching until the water runs cool. Sam washes off quickly, but the water is just this side of cold before he's done, and he's back to shivering by the time he gets out.

Dean's waiting for him in bed, though, and that warms him up faster than anything else might.

~~~~~

"I've been thinking about school," Sam says later that night, when they're tangled up in each other, warm under the covers while the wind blows snow everywhere.

"Yeah?" Dean sounds sleepy, and when Sam turns his head to see him better, he has his eyes mostly closed, face lax with relaxation and pleasure. It's really a kick to see him like that, all fucked out and happy. Kind of makes Sam want to do it again. "Well?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. I think I'll take a couple classes at the community college – I'm thinking creative writing, or something – and see about the local university for next fall."

"Can't you just transfer—oh." Sam knows the instant Dean figures it out. He can't transfer his credits from Stanford, because Stanford doesn't exist any longer. "Damn."

"It's okay. It's a fresh start, right? I can do anything, be anything."

"Damn straight, Sammy." Dean doesn't sound sleepy anymore; in fact, he's turned and he's nuzzling at Sam's throat. "I'm sorry, man. About—"

"Don't. It's not your fault."

"It's not yours, either, so don't even go there."

That one's harder to believe, to accept, so Sam just hums a non-answer and kisses Dean. "So are we really gonna do this?"

"Do what?" Slightly breathless is a good way for Dean to be. Sam traces one finger down his chest and around his navel. "Fuck again?"

"No. Well, yes. But no, I mean, this. Stay here. Live here." Smooth skin gives way to coarse hair, and Sam cups Dean's balls in his hand, rolling them gently.

"Jesus, Sam. I can't—concentrate, if you're molesting me." But Dean's already rolling his hips upward, toward the touches, and Sam laughs low.

"Molesting you, huh? Doesn't sound like you hate it too much." He lets go of Dean and retreats just enough they can actually talk without the temptation of teasing Dean to orgasm.

"Asshole."

"Takes one to know one." Sam settles onto his side, head propped up, and stares at Dean. "So. Staying here?"

Dean nods. "Might as well, right? We like the house, the area, we both have jobs we like, all that jazz." He closes his eyes, a pinched look crossing his face. "Man, we might as well join a bowling league or a softball team or something. We're _domestic_."

Sam laughs softly. "I got news for you, dude. We've been domestic for a while, now."

"I guess." Dean's staring up at the ceiling now, studiously not looking at Sam. "Got something I need to tell you."

Sam tells himself firmly that that does _not_ sound ominous. "Yeah?"

"We're not really squatting here. I wasn't—squatting here. I found this place while I was driving around one day, just trying to clear my head and figure things out. Realtor was out front, trying to get the sign into the ground, and she was having trouble, so I stopped and offered to help – then asked her if it was just for sale, or if could be rented." He clears his throat, and Sam reaches out to take one hand, threading their fingers together.

"Go on."

"She said either; the owners had left. That part was true enough, they pretty much just up and left. Saw the signs of things to come, I guess, and decided to hightail it out of here. Anyway, she didn't care if it was rented or sold, so long as some money was coming in. So we did up a contract to do month-to-month, since I didn't know how long you were gonna be in the hospital and wasn't sure what we were gonna want to do after you got out. " He stops, and Sam squeezes his hand.

"I like this place, Dean, but it wouldn't matter where we were living as long as I got you."

"Oh, Jesus, Sam." Dean's cheeks heat up; Sam feels the warmth coming off them. "You are such a fucking _girl_."

"Mock all you want, but it's true." He kisses Dean quickly, whispers, "I do like this place, though. Wanna stay here with you. Grow old here with you." Dean whimpers when Sam bites down on his jaw, on his throat, so Sam smiles and does it again. "Stay here and love you. Make love to you."

"Want that too," Dean mutters, voice low and rough. "All of it. Christ, Sammy, want all of that." He turns toward Sam, mouth open, seeking, and Sam lets himself be pulled in close, devoured one slick, hot kiss at a time.

He rolls them until Dean's on his back, Sam sprawled over him, and works his hand down in between them and down. Dean's still loose and slick from earlier, his body opening to Sam easily. Two fingers go in and Dean squirms, trying to get them deeper.

"Fingers or cock?" Sam rubs upward, inward, pressing against Dean's prostate over and over, massaging the small gland until Dean's whimpering and writhing beneath him. "Want me to fuck you again?"

"God, yes." Dean growls the words. "C'mon, Sam. Give it to me."

He spits into his hand and slicks it over himself, then pushes Dean's legs open and up and slides deep inside in one smooth, continuous thrust. It burns a little, not quite enough slick to ease the way, but Sam likes it like this sometimes; likes to feel it everywhere. He knows Dean does too, because Dean's the one who started pushing to do it this way sometimes.

Dean's worked his cock up to fully erect, and it's slapping wetly between their bellies with each thrust. Sam wishes he could fuck and suck Dean all at the same time; he'd love to get his mouth on the swollen, slick head, lick all around it and tease his tongue over and in the tiny slit. He whispers this to Dean, mouth brushing Dean's ear, and shivers when Dean groans and tightens around him. It's the best kind of feedback loop, because the tighter Dean makes himself, the faster Sam fucks into him, each thrust rough and hard, rocking them, rocking the bed. Sam slows when Dean pushes a hand between them to jerk himself, drawing out slowly and pushing back in just as slow, the tease and burn so good it hurts.

He thrusts in and holds, leans back to watch Dean before adding his hand on top, slowing the strokes down until Dean's whining and hissing between his teeth, wanting to go faster.

"Sammy, god, please—"

"Not yet. God, you're gorgeous like this." And he is, all sweat-soaked and trembling, mouth swollen from kissing and biting, body tense and arched, needing release. Sam draws his thumb across the head of Dean's dick; dips his thumb down against the slit. He _feels_ the precome well up and slide down. Dean shudders hard, wordless moan rising around them when Sam repeats it, using his thumbnail to open the tiny slit wider. More precome oozes out, droplets slicking around the head, dripping down over heated, swollen flesh.

"Sam. God. Sammy, please." Dean's breathless, each word more a groan than anything else, and the groan deepens, lowers, when Sam raises his hand up to his mouth to suck his thumb clean.

"Wanna come while I fuck you? Or like this?" Sam swivels his hips a little, quivering when Dean tightens around him again.

"While you fuck me. Unngh, god." He's jacking himself slowly again, but moving faster, and Sam feels how close they both are, the pleasure running hot and heavy through him, bubbling in his veins and sliding along his nerve endings. "C'mon, Sammy. Fuck me."

Sam leans down to kiss Dean, tongue stroking in and out of Dean's mouth fast and dirty while he works his hips. Dean bites at him, sucks on his tongue, and it's a clashing, a battle between them, sweat and spit, and Sam's so fucking close he's gonna come any second now. He fucks hard into Dean, hard enough to feel the bed shudder under them, and Dean's tightening up, body shaking as he comes in a rush, spilling between them, hot and sticky and everywhere. Sam's orgasm starts at the base of his spine and twists outward, coiling all through him. He groans and fucks Dean through it, cock swelling as he spasms, spilling deep inside.

It takes a few minutes before Sam can summon the energy or brain cells needed to coordinate moving off Dean, and he slumps over to the side and fumbles for the t-shirt he discarded much earlier, to wipe them off with.

Dean has that blissed-out look on his face again, and it makes Sam want to puff out his chest in pride. He settles for saying, "it's probably a good thing we don't share walls with anyone, huh?"

"No kidding. They'd be pounding and yelling for us to quiet down all the time." He makes a quiet sound that almost sounds like laugher, and pulls Sam closer. "Sleep now?"

"Sounds like a good plan." Sam tips Dean toward the door and ignores his grumbles about being the little spoon. They stop as soon as Sam slides their fingers together, hands coming down to rest across Dean's belly. "Love you."

Dean yawns and squeezes their hands. "Love you too, Sammy." His soft snores fill the air within moments, body going lax against Sam's.

Life isn't perfect, Sam thinks as he closes his eyes. He still has a lot of shit to work through; has some things he may never resolve completely. He and Dean are better about talking out things now than before, but there's a ways to go with that, too. He wants to go back to school and do something with his life, but he freely admits to be scared shitless about doing it. Even starting over as he'll be doing, makes something inside him freeze with terror.

But, imperfections notwithstanding, life is a lot better than Sam thought it might be. He's alive and Dean's alive. They're together, the world is still spinning, and the sun still rises every day. It's a far cry from what he was afraid might happen, the day before he said 'yes'. Then, he didn't dare believe there'd be a future for him, even if there was a future for the world.

Sam wiggles until he finds that perfect spot on the pillow, then pulls the quilt further up over both of them. No, life isn't perfect, but it is pretty good, and he's happy with it, imperfections and all.

~fin~

 

  
_ Invictus_

Out of the night that covers me,  
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,  
I thank whatever gods may be  
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance  
I have not winced nor cried aloud.  
Under the bludgeonings of chance  
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears  
Looms but the Horror of the shade,  
And yet the menace of the years  
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,  
How charged with punishments the scroll,  
I am the master of my fate:  
I am the captain of my soul.

\--William Ernest Henley

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Notes and Thank-you's:** I can't believe this is my third year doing Big Bang. I'm kind of awed and impressed by that. *g*
> 
> I've wanted to explore some of Sam's anger management issues since the episode "Sam, Interrupted", and the glimpses we were given as we moved further into S5 of the way the Winchesters' lives – and Sam's in particular – were manipulated and played only fueled my interest. How would Sam deal with some of the revelations he was given? How could he – could he, period – move past the rage, or get it to a point where he could work around it? It certainly wouldn't be a quick fix, but rather more of a settle-in-for-the-long-haul sort of thing, and I hope I portrayed that with this story.
> 
> I think some of my frustration with, and trouble while writing this story, came because it's not something that can be quickly and easily fixed, as much as I wanted to. I tried very hard to show that Sam's making steady forward progress without making it seem too easy, too rosy. Hopefully I succeeded. In any case, I hope you all enjoy the story :)
> 
> I owe great big, huge thank you's to arliss and britomart_is for their tireless, unending support and for beta duty through several stages of the story. I absolutely couldn't have done this without their help and input, and I hope they know how much I appreciate them. *hugs*
> 
> Many, many thank you's to the very lovely and talented electricmonk333 for taking on my story. [The link to the art](http://electricmonk333.livejournal.com/91466.html<br />). Make sure you go check it out, because it's gorgeous. I'm so glad we got to work together on this!
> 
> And finally, a huge thank you to wendy and thehighwaywoman for all they do to bring the Big Bang challenge to us. It absolutely couldn't happen without them, and I can't say thank you enough for giving us the chance to do this.


End file.
